Define Vulnerability
by PiercedBlueCat
Summary: Sherlock is still suffering severely from the aftermath of the torture. John and his other friends try to help. But to distract Sherlock with a case turns out more difficult than expected. Bad memories resurface and cause more havoc than expected. Sequel to my story 'Lesson in Friendship 8'. Doctor!John, Hurt Sherlock. Case fic. In canon. NO Slash, NO Johnlock, 3x01 SPOILERS.
1. Chapter 1

**Define Vulnerability - Chapter 1**

**.**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**_For those of you who have read the previous chapters / first part of the story_**_: Sorry, if there are a few repetitions in this chapter. Thank you all for staying with me!_

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**_To those who haven't read the first part of the story_**_: this won't make much sense if you don't read the first part. It's called 'Lessons in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability" and is about the aftermath of the torture in Serbia, you can find it in my profile with my other stories._

**_Short summary of the first story_**_: The story starts about a week after the events of 'The Empty Hearse'. Sherlock's health and mind is affected by his time away and John's reaction to his return._

_John slowly figures out what had happened in Serbia and after being totally shocked by what he learns is now doing his best to help Sherlock recover. _

_Simultaneously they are trying to solve a case, which in the beginning was meant to be a good distraction for the detective from his own problems, but the case facts are dark and Sherlock is repeatedly surprised badly by the memories that haunt him._

_John has stayed over at 221b for two weeks since Mary in away for further education. Sherlock struggles hard with his own weakness and suffered panic and distress, he also has a hard time opening up to John again but they are beginning to manage. John even guides Sherlock through restoring the damaged mind palace, his own experience with PTSD helping him understanding what Sherlock is going through. _

_I recommend you read the first part of the story to really know what's happening, because I am really bad at summarizing things._

_._

_So on with the story, sorry for the long wait, real life was kind of hard in the past three weeks and I couldn't concentrate enough to do this properly. _

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**Chapter 1**

**Saturday**

John wanted to sleep in the next morning, but it didn't work, he woke early and wasn't able to go back to sleep. Sherlock's state of mind and his depression were kind of getting to John, Sherlock's behaviour was worrying him, the physical problems that had occurred last night during the chase were kind of disturbing, too.

The more alarmed he was when he heard Sherlock downstairs, the noises were clearly those of distress, maybe the detective was having another bad dream? John fetched his jumper and went downstairs.

Sherlock was on the couch and clearly caught in the throes of another nightmare. He was curled into a tight ball and panting, now and then he made a strangled noise.

It sounded sore and weak and was so much out of character for the detective John felt his heartbeat triple within four seconds, the vulnerability of the pose and the low noises causing him distress, too. Shit, what was happening?

"Sherlock?" John spoke softly. "You are dreaming, wake up."

He felt a minute shake of the head under his hand and kind of baffled realised Sherlock was at least partially aware, or was it a coincidence?

"You hurt somewhere?" The doctor tried to find out more.

"Why shoul' I 'ell you? So you coul' torture me where I already 'urt to intensify the'ffect?"

What was this? Interactive dreaming or kind of a flashback? The former army doctor wondered.

"Sherlock, come on, wake up!" John shook the other man's shoulder. "You're safe and home, this is John..."

"You're a hallucination, I had those b'fore."

"You imagined I was there in the dungeon with you?" John probed.

"No, thought John wasin the dungeon wi'me..."

"Okay." John puckered his lips, this was reminding him of somnambulating, sleepwalking. Which would probably mean that even if Sherlock managed to open his eyes he would sleep on. "So if I am not John, who am I?… Look at me and tell me."

Sherlock slightly uncurled his upper body and opened his eyes, but closed them again immediately, they were dull and the lids swollen. John looked at the other man's hand, it was getting blue here and there now from when Sherlock had rammed his fist into the wall a few hours before. Then the doctor's gaze fell to Sherlock's bare feed and his breath froze in his lungs.

Two of Sherlock's smaller toes were looking odd.

Oh, Jesus, they were both missing the toenails! And another toe looked oddly deformed.

Oh, god. That must have happened when Sherlock had been tortured!

John once more felt sick to the stomach with the unexpected sight of the damage that was not only done to Sherlock's body, but his soul, too. When would this end, him finding new horrors his friend had gone through?

"Sherlock, do your toes hurt?"

Sherlock nodded quietly.

"Badly?"

The detective shook his head. He opened his eyes again, now John saw full understanding coming back and that Sherlock had apparently woken during the last moments.

"How bad?"

"A bit more than in the past week."

"Shit, why didn't you tell me?" John was kind of angry but hoped it wasn't reflected in his voice.

"I hurt you enough already."

"What?… How?…I …" John was speechless but remembered a conversation from a few days earlier. "Sherlock, why are we having this conversation over and over again…? I hurt with you, yes, but by not telling me you also hurt me, and yourself, and that is even worse… Do you understand?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely and John took a closer look at the feet, not touching him. There was nothing he could do right now. Examining them would only add to Sherlock's distress and all he could do right now was give him painkillers if the pain was to much, which it wasn't, obviously.

"What did you dream about?"

"Cellar."

"Was the state of your feet the reason you couldn't run full speed today?"

"Maybe, I don't know, I switched off the pain perception but something wrapped around me after running a few hundred metres and I couldn't breathe and function properly and the pain came back full force when… I stopped running."

"Maybe you re-broke the fractured toe by running?… Blimey, you should have told me!" The doctor suggested. "Can I touch it?"

"No."

"You want some painkillers?"

"No."

"What good would it had done if I told you? You think preventing a toe from breaking again is more important than catching a serial killer, really?" Sherlock was now his usual unnerved self again.

"No." John admitted. "But we could have done it all different."

"But I didn't want to."

"You think you can go back to sleep?"

"No. I'm gonna watch telly, you can go back to sleep." Sherlock dismissed him.

"Fine." John knew this was all Sherlock would say about the thing for now. "There is ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet if you want some."

"I don't."

"Just in case."

Sherlock didn't answer and John headed back upstairs, not sure if he could go back to sleep himself after this new revelation.

Sherlock watched crap telly for about an hour. It was refreshing to see it, kind of. Same dumb discussions, same irrelevant chats, same stupid advertisements and uneducated characters at talk shows. He had seen loads of different styles of TV channels during his time abroad, and equal loads of crap and disgusting stupidity the average TV viewer was expected to put up with.

For him telly was an apprentice piece in deducing and social interaction. He had been criticised often because he knew nothing about trivia and all the daily nonsense people listened to, but it was interesting how different cultures dealt with it all and which forms of entertainment were hip in which country right now.

But he was glad to be back in London, he had watched _BBC news_ from so many countries, grateful the channel could be received almost everywhere in the world, but actually being here again felt good, kind of safe, known ground… home.

After half an hour Sherlock felt sitting up was too much work and moved from his armchair back to the sofa, taking the remote with him. His feet were getting cold and he put on the woollen socks he had found somewhere in his dresser a few nights ago. They must be John's, they definitely weren't his, looked hand knitted.

He couldn't keep his thoughts with the TV enough to be distracted from his own sinister thoughts.

He had dreamt about the hours in the dungeon… those tedious sickening hours when he had lost his toenails and broke at least two of his toes, it was one of the most vicious nights in there he had… He had indeed hallucinated John was there and had tried to flee to his mind palace to escape reality, but somehow his torturer had managed to follow him, he sucked in air with the new pinkish pain the memories stirred up.

Try to keep the memories at bay! Don't give in, don't think about it, don't…. but it was no use, something dragged his mind into the palace and he suddenly found himself in front of the new cell he and John had built to confine the bad memories.

He took a look inside carefully, the swarm of bad thoughts was pulsing in a threatening lava glow, red and black, in the middle of the room, it hadn't moved and besides the colour looked the same.

Good, that was good. He relaxed a bit. So what was the problem? He hadn't wanted to come in here, but since he was already there… He turned towards the stairs that would lead to the normal hallways of the palace, out of the bad memory-areas.

He had just placed his right foot at the first step of the stairs when a bloodcurdling scream disrupted the silence.

He stood frozen. There were people?

Who'd get in here? Burglars? Ridiculous! There _was_ no getting 'in' here, the palace had no 'outside', so how could anybody break in? There usually were only friends or images of people he wanted or needed in here.

This was ridiculous! He headed upstairs, away from the noise. John had told him to stay away from problems in the palace when he was alone, and this time it would probably be a good idea to listen to him.

He was always alone in here, it was _his_ mind… faulty mind. Maybe because it was failing that he was not any longer alone, maybe that was part of the malfunction, his subconsciousness running wild once more. Had the damage kind of created a breach?

He reached the top of the stairs and stood rooted to the spot when he saw the massive Victorian railing widened and was connected to a full corridor high and wide row of bars. Like someone had transformed the whole lower level into an antique looking prison.

The thing was there was no door that would allow him to pass the barrier.

This was impossible, how did this get here?

There was no other way up. Why hadn't he thought of building in fire escapes or something… but even if he had, bars appearing out of nowhere would have probably blocked them, too. But… he usually transferred from one level to another without using any stairs, he tried now to go to the second level.

The only thing that happened when he concentrated was that he was experiencing a headache. This was so very ridiculous!

A siren started to blare in the distance and he frowned, he had never heard that one before. Maybe he should take a look.

Were the persons he had heard responsible for the bars?

Were they still here?

He closed his eyes and listened… and then he heard something odd, a gurgling noise, it was far away but sounded ominous, where did it came from? Focus!

When he hurried down the stairs he once more remembered John had said not to go investigate, just get out of there, but he felt incompetent, weak and useless enough, if he now started running away from his own mind he'd soon be even more a mess than he already was, faltering with the tiniest problems. There was no way he wanted to live like that! The mere thought was disgusting!

He ran down the stairs and when he reached the bottom of the first underground level he found the second one was already completely flooded. The water had a muddy brown colour and rose at an alarming speed. Moriarty would drown and the swarm would drown and _he_ would drown, too!

The water rose and he took a step backwards up the stairs. If this would continue to rise the two landings or higher the bars would prevent him from escaping, or had Moriarty escaped and built the bars to punish him for having him incarcerated?

He was paralysed with confusion until the water actually washed around his feet and the first thing he registered was hot orange and white pain! What was causing the sudden pain? Disorientation.

He stumbled backwards but slipped in the muddy liquid and when he fell his left calf came into contact with the water. It was hot!

He managed to crawl up the stairs in startled and in pain.

"Sh'l'ck."

That was a whisper, a voice? Was it really here? It might have been only the sound of the water.

He tried to get out of his hot wet shoes who attached the burning liquid to his feet.

But the water seemed to rise with more speed now and he had barely managed to get out of the shoes and socks when the hot liquid came near his foot again, he shifted up the stairs, knowing he must be nearing the bars. No chance to swim at all in this water!

Then it happened, his back made contact with the solid metal of the bars and he sucked in air in horror.

He remembered that feeling, it was one of the worst ones he had ever met.

"Sherlock!" That was clearly a voice! Was Moriarty here? The gurgling made it unrecognisable.

He turned around to see if there was someone on the other side of the bars.

None, the landing was empty.

He felt the hot liquid touch his bare soles and cried out in pain, struggling to get away.

"Shit, Sherlock, stop it!"

He jerked his eyes open and stared into John's face. How did he get into the palace?

"Blimey, Sherlock, wake up!… Come on!" John shook him, they were in the flat, he was sitting on the ground in front of the right side of the sofa, the blanket and some pillows on the cold floor.

"That's it, look at me!" John urged and touched him.

He tried to pull his hands away.

"No…" his voice was raspy and shaking and he couldn't grasp what had just happened. Dreams were not like that. Had he been in his mind palace? Was it really _that_ damaged?

"I need to go back, don't touch me!" He tried to struggle out of John's hold on his shoulder and his wrist. "Something's wrong."

"Go back? Where?"

"Mind Palace."

"You have been dreaming."

"No… no… I… I need to…"

"No, not now, out of the question!… I couldn't wake you for minutes, I can't risk you going there and get lost or worst. Stay with me."

Sherlock twisted himself free and turned away, closing his eyes, he needed to go back and make sure. He willed himself to the top of the stairs, one landing above where the bars were, to a position from where he could look down on them within a few steps but was safe to run away fast, too.

When he opened his eyes in the palace he was in the exact place where he wanted to be, his heart was beating like mad and with shaky legs he moved downstairs to the landing to see the position where the bars had been.

But in mid movement he needed to pause for a moment to calm down his breathing because he was gasping for air. Listen! No sounds of water. He held his breath to hear better for a moment, still no water. He peered around the corner, over the railing to were the bars should have been.

They were gone! Sherlock exhaled and looked closer, no water, no mud, no steam, nothing. Everything looked normal.

In sudden exhaustion he sagged down to sit on the stairs for a moment, he felt sick and tired. Maybe he should go back.

He opened his eyes in the flat. John was kneeling besides him and examining him, taking his BP. Sherlock didn't struggle, just tried to breathe normally.

"What happened?" John asked as soon as he saw that the detective was back with him.

Sherlock just shook his head. Did this mean it really all had been a dream? Or had the reality of the mind palace mixed with a dream? Or maybe he had just dreamt about the palace?

"The mind palace… or something in it tried to kill me."

"Blimey. How?"

"Simmering water flooding the level where I was, first basement level, the only exit blocked by an iron lattice wall."

"Oh. Not good. Did it burn you?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Where?"

"Feet."

"Okay, come on, let's get you off the floor. You need some tea and something to eat, believe me you'll feel better. I did extended tests while you were away on how not eating makes your depressions even worse." John's tone was clearly carrying sarcasm and maybe a bit self-criticism.

John vanished into the kitchen and Sherlock stood up slowly. A moment later he heard John fill the kettle and prepare some cups.

He had just managed to get his breathing back to normal when he heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs.

"Boys?" She asked softly before poking her head inside the door. "Good morning!" She continued when she saw Sherlock was awake and heard John answer from the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too, Mrs H."

"Sherlock, you look awful, dear! Did you eat at all in the past three days?"

Sherlock only mumbled something and she turned on the spot and headed back down the stairs. "Let me get some pastries for you guys."

Two minutes later she came back with a large plate of Sherlock's favourite pastries in two variations.

.

John made them all sit at the dinner table and have the first (almost) normal meal there together again, including Sherlock reading the paper and Mrs Hudson bringing them up to date on trivia about the neighbours. The doctor expected Sherlock to stop her but he just listened and even managed to react here and there or make a comment as if he had actually listened.

When Sherlock headed to the shower over an hour later and John and the landlady were alone she beamed at him.

"He ate!… and he talked… though I'm not sure he listened, but this is good, isn't it?"

"Yes. Guess so." John smiled at her.

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_A/N:_

_For all the followers from the first story: don't forget to create a new bookmark/follow-thing to stay tuned, I will mark the first story as complete now._


	2. Chapter 2

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 2**

**Saturday evening**

Friday night John and Sherlock had agreed with Lestrade that they'd meet at Scotland Yard to make their statements in the afternoon. Interviewing the victim would have to wait at least until the Sunday morning. They wanted to give her time to recover and Lestrade wanted to keep the case away from the public to protect her. They also wanted to let the killer believe he was safe, so secrecy about the events was essential. John had promised to make sure Sherlock would not sneak into the victim's hospital room and try to interview her before that.

John planned to pick up Mary in the late afternoon, her lessons had been done Friday afternoon, but she had planned to stop by a friend who lives in a seaside town where she needed to change trains anyway and she wanted to take the chance to see her since she was already there.

After their late breakfast Mrs Hudson had provided John showered and Sherlock did too an hour later. He didn't allow John to let him take a look at his feet, though John tried to convince him taping a broken toe would reduce the pain. Sherlock was not very communicative and John got the slight feeling Sherlock was quite distant. At least Sherlock had managed to sleep, that was a good.

John sat down in front of the telly with his laptop. He watched the end of a documentary, waiting for the local news, while he typed a new draft for a blog entry. The news had just started when the door to Sherlock's room opened and the detective scuffled into the living room, in a fresh dressing gown and with damp hair.

"Tea?"

"There's hot water in the kettle and coffee in the machine. You just had two mugs for breakfast." John looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Did Lestrade text?" Sherlock ignored him.

"No."

The news report had started with a feature about the anti-terrorism bill but now the next topic started and in the background of the reporter the picture of a young woman was shown - Sandra Herman, John turned up the volume.

"Sherlock, news report about the case."

Sherlock was next to him within seconds.

"...the young woman was found in the morning, drugged in her apartment. The circumstances of her assault are still unknown and it will take probably several days until she has recovered enough to be interviewed by the police." The only thing the report showed was an outside view of the flat building at daylight and then the outside of the hospital.

"Lestrade obviously didn't manage to keep everything important out of the media."

Sherlock looked annoyed about that.

"The police has not yet given any information about what really happened, though it might be the case that this isn't the first incident were victims were drugged in their apartments. Thus might be related to a case we reported about several days ago, where a victim was found dead, but Detective Inspector Lestrade was not free to talk to the media yet." A short sequence of Lestrade was shown when he came out of a building and reporters tried to get anything from him, but he just raised his hands, excused himself and entered his car. "Stay tuned for updates on the case." The reporter completed the feature.

"Shit, how did they know about it?" John cursed.

"Leak, obviously." Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen.

"Right. Not what I meant."

"The plan was to not inform the public before Tuesday." Sherlock had come back and sat down at the dinner table with a cup of coffee, booting his laptop.

Two hours later John felt the leaden tiredness creep into him again and he decided to take another nap, the previous nights had tell on him.

In the early afternoon John woke up briefly and went to the bathroom. He found Sherlock sleeping on the couch, several used mugs and the violin on the coffee table, together with evidence pictures and documents from the case. John covered him with a blanket and went back to bed.

In the late afternoon Sherlock woke him by yelling his name up the stairs.

"We need to go to Scotland Yard, get up!"

"Shit, what time is it?" John mumbled.

"Sixteen fourteen." Sherlock replied, though John was sure Sherlock couldn't have heard him.

"I need to pick Marry up from the station at seventeen fifteen." John yelled back. "Would it be okay if I drop you off at Scotland Yard before?"

"They need your statement, too."

John finished dressing and left his room.

"I'll be right there after I picked her up. Text me if there is something important they need to know." John passed Sherlock at the their landing. He wanted Sherlock to start texting again, the exercise would improve the agility of his fingers.

Sherlock stayed behind for a moment.

"You really need to pick Mary up? She could call a cab."

"I do. She will come to Baker Street with us."

Sherlock showed no reaction to the statement. John had wondered before if it would be better to ask him, but had decided he'd just inform Sherlock. Sherlock did the same with him, so once he should be allowed to do it, too. He knew it was a huge intrusion, but doubted Sherlock would see it like this, and he couldn't allow him to fall deeper into bad moods which meant he shouldn't be alone. Because Sherlock had always become worse after being alone for too long when in a bad mood already John knew.

"I haven't seen her in days and I miss her, I'd really love to see my future wife and ask her how she is and what she learned and how she feels." John explained.

"I thought you knew her. Shouldn't you be able to tell."

"Yeah, I can, but it'll cause me a lot pleasure to hear her say it and therefore I plan to ask her."

"Seriously? People really waste time on that? I thought it was the nice thing in relationships to _not _need to talk because one knew what the other one meant… or wanted or whatever."

"Yes, of course. But showing interest is also a way to worship a person that means a lot to you." John explained the obvious, rubbing his eyes.

"So letting her explain the obvious is a form of affection?"

"Yeah, if you want to put it that way."

"I see."

"Do you?" John passed him and went to make some more coffee. His diurnal rhythm was blown to hell after only living with Sherlock for some days, again.

"Is that why you asked me what I did during the last two years?"

John froze in the entrance to the kitchen. "Yes… no… There's a difference… I…"

"Explain." Sherlock ordered.

"Okay, this is only an explanation between the two of us, repeating it to other people would be really impolite towards me and towards them, got that?"

"Yess?!" Sherlock agreed, confused.

"Okay, explanation… We have been through this, but obviously you need a bit of a brushing up-course: Not-asking is not-caring… Asking is to be polite… Wanting to actually know is to be polite with caring a bit… and asking for details is... love, or in our case… friendship… The need to _really_ know what happened in detail is affection, a real need, because you feel like what effects the other person effects you, too, so you need details in earnest. Like if something would happen to Mrs Hudson it would affect you… and you'd really need to know the details."

"Oh…."

"The levels of honesty that you answer with need to be in relation to the affection of the person who asks the question. So you don't answer honestly when you are asked for politeness, like by strangers for example,… and you answer really honest when the person asking loves you, like a friend or lover, makes no difference with this topic."

"Uhm, you mean…" Sherlock seemed kind of unsettled with this, out of the blue from John's point of view.

"Sherlock, you knew this, I told you before, why do you act as if this is news to you?"

"I… I might have deleted it."

"What?" John knew this argument, but… "Why?"

"I… couldn't afford real politeness and friendliness in the past years, obvious, when interacting with spies and killers, isn't it?"

"Oh,… you mean you haven't had any kind of nice human interaction on the road?" John had to admit he was a bit curious if Sherlock had made new friends, and then asked himself in horror if he was jealous once more for people having known Sherlock was still alive when he didn't.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want any interaction with strangers, and the kind of contact I wanted was not available, because I was dead to the people I wanted contact with... Of course I did interact when the need to get information or equipment arose, but it was a not by choice but by necessity." Sherlock was a bit impatient, about having to state the obvious, he intentionally tried to keep it superficial.

But John understood, the detective meant with him and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. That was a compliment and an obvious message that he had missed them, right?

"Can we go now?" Sherlock started to prepare to leave and John joined the activities.

.

John dropped Sherlock off in front of Scotland Yard and headed for the station to pick Mary up. They barely had time to greet each other when John received a text from Sherlock that explained John's presence was needed. John was not happy, he'd like to spend some time with Mary and just talk, but she seemed curious to see Scotland Yard from the inside and explained she'd like to go. So they headed back there.

.

When they reached New Scotland Yard there was a lot of chaos and distress in the air and John was a bit surprised, not what he had expected on a Saturday evening.

"What's happening?" He asked Sherlock as soon as he had spotted him standing in the middle of all the careering about policemen and detectives and forensics. Sherlock stood there like a pillar, waiting for something interesting to happen, perhaps? His face showed an odd mixture of forced calm and delight.

"What are you doing?" John asked louder when Sherlock failed to reply.

"Breathing it in." Sherlock replied in a low voice that was almost swallowed by the noise.

John masked his grin with his hand. This was good, especially when Sherlock was able to relish this instead of yelling at everybody for being dumb.

"The leak sort of caused a major crisis. This might blow the whole investigation back to square one… I mean even more than we managed to blow it by letting him get away." Sherlock's tone was sarcastic now.

Lestrade appeared out of nowhere and signalled them to come to his office.

Mary, Sherlock, John, Donovan and Lestrade entered the DI's office and everyone except Sherlock sat down.

While John explained what had happened during the chase and how he had lost the suspect,

Mary listened with interest, she had not heard of the latest events. Though John had called her almost every day and told her what they had done the recent calls had been brief because they both were tired from their days.

Lestrade wasn't really concentrated and neither was Sally. She wrote loads of notes, but probably only because she needed to remember later because her mind was in fact occupied with the more pressing thing: the leak.

.

Only half an hour later Sherlock raised his hand for a cab in front of Scotland Yard while John and Mary whispered niceties into each other's ear. It took Mary's comment to remind the men that John had actually arrived with a car. Sherlock started to giggle and John joined him, it was ridiculous.

"Habit." Sherlock smiled at Mary and they headed towards the garage.

When they reached the car Sherlock sat in the back and John asked himself if this was odd. Well, it alone wasn't, but Sherlock was withdrawn today. He didn't talk much and John felt kind of left out. Was Sherlock distancing himself from John because fearing John would leave him again, now that Mary was here? John decided to keep a close eye on that. He had asked Mary to stay with them at 221b to prevent Sherlock from feeling left out, and to make to make sure he wouldn't spiral any deeper into depression… and to be near if Sherlock needed help.

John talked to Mary all the way back, which in fact took almost thirty-five minutes. Sherlock said nothing. The doctor briefly asked himself if he had retreated into his own thoughts or if he was listening. How often had Sherlock really been with a couple, what did he know about this kind of relationship? Maybe his only comparison were his parents. If he was honest with himself he was a bit anxious about the whole thing. Would Mary still like Sherlock after she had spent a week in the same flat with them… and would she still like John, of course she would, but would it cause trouble in their relationship? Sherlock could be a bit possessive. But Mary was tough and she had heard a lot about Sherlock before.

Mary talked about her week and what she had learned and when she finally asked Sherlock if it was okay for him that she came with them to Baker Street Sherlock immediately answered.

"221b is John's home. You are an extension of John, aren't you?"

Sherlock's phone beeped.

"I am." She answered before John had really and truly understood the meaning of the question.

"Then it's kind of your home, too." Sherlock said absently, now scrolling through his text messages.

Mary looked at John, who raised his eyebrows, she beamed with pride for the acceptance she was given. John had not dared to hope Sherlock would accept the hole thing this easy.

The doctor needed quite a moment to grasp this was really profound and didn't manage to overcome his speechlessness. About three minutes later Mary made a gesture like eating and John nodded.

"I shopped pasta and mozzarella, but we can order something, what would you like?" His question was directed at Mary but Sherlock was the one answering first.

"Chinese."

"Chinese." Mary said almost the same moment.

"Okay, guess I am outnumbered." John smiled at her.

.

The rest of the evening was quiet.

They ate and went to bed early.

John was not sure if Sherlock went to bed, but he had changed into his pyjamas and his dressing gown after the meal and at least looked as if he would when Mary and him said good night and headed upstairs.

...

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Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 3**

**Sunday**

When John stood up Mary muttered she wanted to go back to sleep for a bit and he should have a shower first.

He decided to check on Sherlock first, make sure he wasn't wandering around the flat in a sheet or dissecting something on the kitchen table. He had warned Mary that he had done that in the past, but he wanted to spare her that as a first sight on a Sunday morning.

He found Sherlock sound asleep in his dressing gown with socks on, but on his bed for a change. A blister of paracetamol on the bedside table, two pills missing. John assumed his feet and hands had bothered him.

He closed the door to the kitchen as quiet as possible and made coffee and toast for breakfast.

When he sat down in front of the telly with his ready to eat toast on a plate he wondered if they'd ever return to the habit of eating at the dining table like decent people, not like a student or bachelor having unhealthy food while learning or working. He had missed the ritual of their common meals, too, though Sherlock - most of the times - had only joined him for tea or coffee in the morning.

.

Almost two hours later Mary joined him in the living room. She was already dressed and kissed him as a greeting. A few moments later she joined him with her own plate and coffee watching the news.

"Nothing about the case today." John explained her. He was curious why. Had SY found the leak? Why weren't the reporters just repeating what had happened and added that there were no news, like they used to do? But soon he found out. It was the first of December and the allowed time for the news was consumed by information about Christmas things in London and several other more sensational reports than a case with no news.

They watched telly, read emails, and chatted.

.

In the early afternoon Sherlock rose from his bed, shuffling from his room directly to the couch, not saying a word.

John offered him first tea, then coffee, but Sherlock just shook his head. The doctor then decided Sherlock was not in the mood and went on with the normal things they used to do.

Mary sorted through her new teaching material and John finished the draft for the blog he had written before.

In the late afternoon Sherlock hadn't spoken a word and finally Mary asked.

"Sherlock, don't you speak because I am here?

"No." John and Sherlock answered simultaneously.

"Then is it you just don't speak on Sundays?"

"It's Sunday?"

"Ehm, not long, thought, probably since around midnight."

"Is she being sarcastic?" Sherlock actually opened his eyes and threw John an asking look.

"A bit." John grinned.

"Why?"

"I was just teasing." Mary vindicated herself laughing.

"Is that nice of you… or mean?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"It's nice."

"Oh, god!" Sherlock exploded suddenly. "I better create a whole new database for 'Mary-communication-peculiarities'. Should have done that before… or better a whole new room in the palace." Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, broadcasting he was unnerved but then closed them again and returned to remain silent.

John grinned, knowing exactly what his friend was talking about. This was actually another bit of Sherlock being as he had been _before_. John kind of struggled with the definition of _before_ and _after_ the fall, but the differences where just too significant. Sherlock was not himself lately and he was glad about every tiny bit of his usual self that surfaced, no matter how difficult that aspect used to be for him in the past.

"Now, what's that supposed to mean?" Mary asked curiously.

"Ask John to explain, I am not in the mood for talking…" Sherlock suggested in a soft and actually nice voice. "But please not now…" He added when John took breath to explain.

The doctor shook his head towards Mary, grinning, and his expression said 'I'll tell you later if you want to know'.

Sherlock never saw it, he was on the sofa in one of his thinking positions.

John wondered if he'd burst out telling them to be quiet any moment, but nothing happened. Mary carefully started another conversation with John and soon they were talking in a normal tone about all day things and organising the week.

.

Sherlock had actually taken his time to listen to them, breathe in their presence, the flat and how it felt when there was life going on inside it once more.

Feeling how Mary's presence felt, absorbing the nuances of her sentences and her voice. Creating a new database, detaching her entries from John's, where they had coexisted until now, creating new links with the doctors entries, though, and making a whole new series of tags that linked those two databases.

Until now he had only linked his databases with John's and also his ones with Mycroft's but never two ones in which neither one was one of his own, needed a lot of adaptations.

He didn't dare to really put the whole thing into the mind palace, the place was still behaving a bit odd, for now only handling and sorting through the database-group of things would be sufficient.

He also kept watch of specific features of John's communication that only existed when he interacted with Mary. All the new information was quite a mess and Sherlock wondered if he'd ever be able to sort this out, but Sunday was only about sixteen hours old, so at least eight more to go. No… Mary was probably one of the persons who uses to sleep… so maybe six. He could sort out the accumulated mess later. Would be some demanding hours, but maybe by then he'd established a foundation. At that point it'd probably be wise to sort some of it into the mind palace… no, he wasn't eager to go there, later.

Mary's presence had definitely changed an aspect of the flat's atmosphere, though he was far from recognising what it was yet. He'd figure it out, it was a dark shade of ivory in colour, that much he knew. The texture of the sensation was also similar to how ivory felt. Need perceived: need for a collecting point for unknown sensations, utterances, sayings, phrases and movements, but his own sensations kind of didn't fit into the group of others, establish secondary collecting point of view of everything that was not directly and actively produced by her.

He tried to relax into the sofa when he distantly realised his back was hurting slightly.

He continued to listen.

.

His storing-information-process was disturbed again when John and Mary made him get up and help them make dinner, explaining he was supposed to participate. He wasn't sure he liked it but it turned out to be quite interesting concerning storing movement patterns.

John bumped into Mary twice, clearly not used to a third fast moving object in the room, Mrs Hudson was obviously slower… or maybe it wasn't an accident that they collided? They kissed briefly and Sherlock looked away, feeling like he wasn't supposed to be a witness. Then it became even more interesting when Mrs Hudson actually came home and peeked into the room.

She immediately joined the mix and Sherlock felt like in the eye of a tornado. The flat had only been buzzing like this at Christmas.

He watched it for a few minutes, but then realised his mind was fading out the voices, busy with just adjusting to the unfamiliar amount of friendly movements.

The urge to go and get the violin grew the more the noise level rose, although it was definitely friendly it was a bit too much.

He finally followed the urge and headed into the living room, away from the kitchen's turmoil, reaching for the bow and the instrument. He tightened the bow and started playing without tuning it, a deep vibrating piece.

After ten long seconds of startled tasting surprised silence a dark green easing of tension reappeared and the noises and clatter from the kitchen continued. Was it right? Was there a whiff of delight in the air? No, he was probably imagining it.

….

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><p>….<p>

_* See my stories Lessons in Friendship 1, Lessons in Friendship 5, Handle with Care (Ch. 13) for more detailed information on how those work._

_..._

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><p><em>...<em>

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. _

_Constructive criticism welcome._


	4. Chapter 4

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_It took me long to finish this new chapter. RL was kind of difficult and I couldn't manage to work on the story because the topics were all a bit too close to home. I am sorry for the long wait and grateful for you for staying with me nevertheless._

…

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><p>…<p>

**Chapter 4**

**Monday**

Monday morning John and Mary got up early to get to the surgery in time. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and John decided to call him later to make sure he'd get up in time to meet Lestrade at the hospital.

Lestrade had texted them the day before and told them the victim was not ready to be interviewed until Monday late in the morning. He expected Sherlock to be ready to be picked up at 10:00 o'clock.

Of course Sherlock had called Lestrade back and tried to find out more about why she wasn't ready earlier and why the doctors didn't understand this was urgent. He also wanted to know if there were any news about the leak. But Lestrade had been frantically busy with the other case they still had to work on and had told Sherlock they'd talk later.

Sherlock had tried twice again but Lestrade hadn't picked up. About that fact the detective was not amused, which could probably be heard in Mrs Hudson's kitchen very clearly.

John just grinned at him and hinted at how often Sherlock had ignored Greg's or his calls in the past when he was busy and he'd better not complain therefore.

Sherlock had sulked a bit but then returned to explain several theories about tobacco ashes to Mary who was listening as if she was really interested.

So John decided he'd call and make sure his flatmate was awake at 9:00.

They left the house as silent as possible.

.

At 9:00 Sherlock's mobile rang and he jumped out of the bed in surprise.

He still wanted his old mobile back, but it was no longer available at stores and Lestrade refused to get the original one from the evidence storeroom. He had already thought about nicking it or looking for a used one on ebay.

He reached in the kitchen before he knew he was awake.

None was there, it was an empty ugly sensation. This was the first time John had to go to work since… He stood there for a moment, listening with uneasiness for the sound of emptiness.

The flat felt dead, not good. The lingering remnants of a nightmare wavered through his consciousness, there had been death, but other than that he couldn't remember.

He felt awful, more tired and stiffer than the days before. Everything hurt and his mind felt misty. From the nightmare?

"Sherlock?" John's voice came out of the phone, right, it had rung and he must have picked up. Automatism.

"Ja."

"You okay?"

"Ja, mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch."

"What?"

Oh, that might have been a bit rude. Not good. He should go right back to bed, option meant to risk dreaming again. Bad option.

"Sherlock? What is wrong there?" John sounded perplexed, voice raised.

"Nothing, I'm fine. Bad dream I guess."

"What was it about?"

"I don't know, something from the time in Hamburg maybe?"

"What language was that? German, then? What was the translation?"

"Ehm, sarcastic comment about being fine when asked and it is obvious not the best moments to ask. Maybe like 'I'm peaky.' or something."*

"So what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just regret that I slept."

"Okay. Lestrade will pick you up in an hour to go see Sandra Herman."

"Who?"

"Jesus, Sherlock it's the name of the latest victim, are you awake at all, yet?"

"Nooo."

"Then go get a coffee and try to wake up and try to figure out a mechanism that allows you to finally remember names, it would help you in real life profoundly."

"What for? Names are irrelevant. I like Mrs Hudson no matter what her name is, and I don't like Anderson, and I wouldn't evenlike him if his name was Hamish."

"What?… Sherlock?" John was laughing. "Was that a compliment? That's kind of a really odd way so see that group of topics."

"I don't know. Compliments are relative."

"Okay, Sherlock. Your ability to wander off the subject has improved, congrats. I have to go, next patient is waiting. Lestrade will be there shortly, have a shower."

"Why?"

"Oh, Sherlock, don't… just do it."

"'kay."

Sherlock was on his way to the bathroom when he remembered John usually finished his phone calls with a greeting, he should have waited for that. But he continued to head for the shower and finally, the warm water managed to wake him up and wash away the bad remnants of the night.

Clean felt good and fresh, removed the numbness and made him more like moving in reality.

On one hand he felt stupid being waken by John, on the other he was glad for every single tiny sign John was alive and well.

He knew he was a mess right now, the past hour had been another proof of it. It became clearer and clearer and John was still with him. He was grateful, but that vague knowledge that he was, made something in him feel like bursting about that fact, burning and tight in his chest, he tried to wash that away, too, but it only faded a bit to the background.

.

Lestrade picked him up and shortly after that the DI spoke to the young woman's doctor in the hospital floor.

Sherlock stood by and watched. Instead of listening to the boring conversation he deduced the man's activities from last night. Interesting.

"Come on!" Lestrade tipped his shoulders and when Sherlock blinked the doctor had turned away and was walking down the hallway. "That way." Lestrade led him down the corridor, where in the distance another doctor left a room and vanished around a corner.

Sherlock blinked, trying to get out of his thoughts and into reality, he was really groggy today… and blinked again. Something was not quite as it should be. He couldn't… the man's posture was the opposite of his profession. Usually most doctors were self-confident and educated, and their posture showed that, or at least a certain amount of it, but even though his clothes said 'doctor' his posture said something else he couldn't identify. Maybe he should stop analysing every detail that crossed his way and concentrate.

Lestrade had taken him with him, he was welcome to listen and investigate, he should try to concentrate and not mess this up, too. He had screwed up enough things for a whole year in the past two weeks. Concentrate!

"So how are you doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Do you really need to ask this question."

"No."

"What?" Did he mean it was actually obvious or that he wasn't interested, or was it just small talk? "Could you actually ask what you want to know?"

"That bad?"

"Lestrade! I didn't say anything!… Except that I uttered my confusion."

"'xcatly. Room 215." Lestrade nodded towards the room and Sherlock turned left, opening the door three seconds later without knocking.

He entered, Lestrade following a few steps behind him. "You're supposed to knock, Sherlock."

Lestrade hadn't even shut the door after them when Sherlock stopped. Something was off, but he couldn't grasp it.

"Mrs Herman? We are here to ask you some questions about your ordeal." Lestrade started when Sherlock stepped closer to the bed.

Something smelled more like an operating theatre than a hospital room.

Lestrade stepped closer and the young woman didn't react.

She was pale and looked like sleeping, and very small in her bed, even smaller than Sherlock remembered from when she had been on her sofa. His gaze automatically went to the monitor that was displaying her oxygen level and pulse rate.

Sherlock frowned and then sucked in air in surprise, those numbers were not good, not good at all.

Before Lestrade understood what was happening Sherlock had jumped forward and hit the call button. Next he dragged back the bedcover forcefully.

"Shit, Sherlock, what are you doing?" Lestrade seemed badly surprised.

He uncovered the young woman's chest and revealed two stab wounds in her chest, one slightly right from the breast bone which looked superficial, but the another wound was nearby and bleeding profoundly, as if the first try to stab her had hit bone and a second try was necessary.

He had not smelled an operating room but her blood… Cellar… Not good. Sherlock shoved the thought away but had to fight nausea the moment he managed to concentrate on what was happening again.

Sherlock felt everything happen in slow motion.

He turned around and ran after the only one he had seen in the corridor, the odd looking doctor. Concentrate on running! The smell of her blood in the air brought the smell of his own blood to the forefront of his mind, the smell was like in the dungeon, like the blood oozing from him and the dying rat. Nausea rose. No time for that!

Lestrade gasped in surprise when Sherlock passed him on his way out, running after the potential stabber.

This must have happened only seconds ago.

The monitors started whining in alarm the moment Sherlock passed the door. The only way to go other than the corridor was towards the stairways.

Sherlock found himself once more stand in a stairway listening for footsteps.

Nothing could be heard.

He had managed to run down two flights of stairs when he realised it was no use, it would be wise to call security, have the hospital in lockdown and see the CCTV material.

He listened again to make sure, no footsteps, no panting, no fleeing villain. The fake doctor must have already reached where he wanted to go, left to flee through another ward, where his traces might get lost faster.

He had barely turned around to get up the stairs again when he felt his knees were shaking… he managed to grab hold of the banister and knelt on the fist step.

He needed to get up there, make sure security was called and… Pale mint green disorientation swirled down the steps in front of him, the fake black marble mocking him.

Up, he needed to get up!

The smell of blood once more assaulted him, where was it coming from?

Something was off.

He felt sick. This was not good!

Get away!

He needed to get away!

The urge to flee was overwhelming, but seconds later he knew there was something more important!

Remember!

Lockdown.

He managed to get to his feet but the moment he took the first step the door above him flew open and the aggressive sound made him jerk back in surprise. He felt the miasmic panic rush through his body.

Who was up there?

He barely managed to lift his head before he heard Lestrade yell.

"Sherlock!"

A moment later the DI was next to him, grabbing his upper arm.

"What happened?"

"Lost him."

"What?"

"Lockdown… get security! He went down the stairs… We need the CCTV footage, close all doors, have them look for him… Lock all doors."

When Lestrade didn't react immediately Sherlock shook him off.

"Go!" He yelled and Lestrade hurried up the stairs, running back into the ward.

Sherlock felt his pulse in his throat. Uncomfortable.

Breathing to fast.

Slowing down was an effort.

This felt ugly. He was sure it was panic he was feeling… or anxiety? Was there a difference… did it matter? It didn't.

Slowing down to not be discovered in this nasty state would be important.

He forced himself to only take half the breaths he wanted to.

It made him feel like suffocating at first, but gladly the feeling could be dialled down by the force of will.

It took a conscious effort and about six long and hard minutes to make his pulse and his breathing return to an almost-normal state.

During those he just stood there, stoically refusing to sit down or allow his body any more leniency. It did not deserve any for failing him like this.

He felt dizzy when he first moved up the steps, probably with the sudden movement, but the sensation ebbed fast. When he found he clenched his teeth he made a conscious effort to relax his jaw, it reminded him off Mycroft.

It took a few moments to adjust but then he was able to walk safely.

He straightened the jacket and the coat.

He had barely done a few steps when the door two landings above him was thrown open again.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade yelled through the staircase. Sherlock flinched, the echo hurt his ears and the sudden loud noises disrupting the silence felt like a blast.

"Here. Fine."

But he heard steps coming down immediately.

"You look like shit." Lestrade said as soon as he was next to him.

"Formidable observation, detective inspector. Status?"

"Surveillance tapes on the way, Mrs Herman in surgery, Hospital in lockdown."

When Sherlock moved on Lestrade reached for his arm. Sherlock evaded the touch.

"Oi, are you okay?" Lestrade leaned down a bit.

"Why does everyone ask me this?" Sherlock hissed.

"Because you look like shit and everyone can see you're not okay, sorry, mate… I'm just honest..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"…and because some people want to help."

"I hope this does not include Anderson and Donovan." Sherlock tried to change the subject

"Maybe even them, they _are_ kind of sorry."

"Anderson's way of being sorry is actually kind of… disquieting."

"Yes. Definitely. We had quite a few 'discussions' about it. But that's not the point. What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, if there is anything, tell me. You want me to give you a ride home?"

"No." Sherlock's face showed stubborn determination but Lestrade saw clearly getting away was probably the thing Sherlock wanted the most. "I want to see the footage."

"Security is working on it. Let's go get a coffee. It'll take a while to prepare a copy of all the footage. We'll take it to Scotland Yard for analysing it. If we manage to get a good picture from it I'll make Donovan go through the whole bloody hospital and show the still to every member of staff this building has."

Sherlock continued up the stairs and felt Lestrade's observing eyes on him but didn't comment.

Lestrade's welcome when he had come back to London had been the kindest and most welcoming, Sherlock was still confused and maybe a bit touched by it.

Lestrade had never hugged him before. The tight embrace had shown a lot of unspoken things and Lestrade had been so… relieved and honestly glad to see him. The types of relationships were all so different. They all were named friendship, but it seemed he needed a word for every single type of friendship he had endured the past two years for. Language was so very imprecise.

They had a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, but no matter how nice and offering Lestrade was, Sherlock was close lipped and not eager for social interaction right now. He even waited patiently for Lestrade to talk to security later and finally they headed to the yard with the footage.

The analysis in the video lab brought no real new insights.

The man was visible on the tape leaving the hospital room, but he had managed to keep his face out of the camera's view. The same was true about his arrival. He had only spent seconds in the room.

Donovan would have no luck showing the stills the technician made around.

Sherlock watched the few glimpses of him they had over and over again, the technician left after the third insult with Lestrade's permission.

The DI left Sherlock another twenty minutes of silent back and forth, watching every detail, zooming in here and there, he informed him to call him in his bureau when he was finished.

Sherlock worked through the material, glad he was finally undisturbed.

Hiding his distress was getting harder by the minute and took so much concentration he instead needed to do a proper breakdown of the sequence.

Another hour later he was sure the man on the tape seemed slightly taller than the one John and he had met in the staircase. Sherlock was quite sure now it was not the same man. His movements were much more snappy than the ones he remembered from the hallway meeting.

He called Lestrade, who appeared within two minutes.

"No evidence found on the scene." Lestrade muttered while he sat down next to Sherlock again.

"It was not the same men, chances are high this was a amateur or semi-professional hit man, or someone who had been in the military. He was too fast and the fact that he left almost no evidence… obviously he was not doing such things for the first time."

"Okay. " Lestrade rubbed his face.

_…__._

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><p><em>…<em>_._

_*Though I overall really don't like german translations here is one line I need to mention, one where the translation is better than the original line: _

_'From dusk till dawn', the main character just watched his brother die and the female main character asks him how he is. In English he says. "Peaky." As I understand that it's ironic, but actually the pure meaning of the word might have been used when saying it not sarcastic, too. _

_In the german translation he says "Mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch." which means "The sun is shining out of my arse." The line became kind of famous, but I didn't know it. When I first heard one of my flatmates use it I though it was another saying I didn't understand. I am really not good with proverbs and stuff and therefore had to ask what it meant. Well, my flatmates made me watch the film with them then. _

_…__._

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><p><em>...<em>

_So, thanks for reading._


	5. Chapter 5

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_There are some descriptions of the victim's ordeal in here. Nothing sexual but it's about being drugged and paralysed. Not too graphic, but she describes her feelings. Don't read if this might trigger your._

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><p>…<p>

**Chapter 5**

**Monday evening**

Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street in the late afternoon. The smell of baking greeted him right behind the front door.

Mrs Hudson was busy, obviously.

He took a moment to actually listen to his body's needs but the only reaction to the smell of food was one of rejection. It didn't smell particularly good or bad, it was just a smell.

His transport seemed to still linger in a slight nauseous mode. He felt the urge to push this embarrassing perception away.

The smell of blood was not supposed to make him feel bad. It was just a smell. A smell he'd be confronted on a daily basis in his line of work, so the last thing he needed was freaking out with its presence.

He needed it to stop it, the odd reactions of his body to things that reminded him of what had happened during the hiatus.

He wanted control back. He needed it back.

Repulsion.

He felt weak and useless like this.

This was not a form of existence he'd be able to endure long.

Angry with himself and ashamed of the ugly things his transport threw at him, he decided he needed to tame it with his will.

Why wasn't it working?

He had tried…. Was still trying.

Taming, it should work.

Willing the memories away should be a good coping mechanism, but when he was honest, and he always was… it wasn't working.

He was a mess.

He was weak and freaking out. It was a hateful state.

He felt weary of his own mind and body.

He had been here before, but it hadn't been like this. This time it was more profound than before. This time it included John.

Before… he had hated himself to a point where he had almost killed himself with an overdose… but it was long before he had met John… and hopefully Mycroft was the only person who remembered those events.

Now he felt like the persons who mattered would be better without him. John would have a better life with his wife and maybe kids without his pitiful presence. John was important, John's needs were important.

Sherlock dragged himself up the stairs. He felt tired. Disgusted and sick of himself. But John would not tolerate him getting away again or finally... He couldn't do that to John. So he was doomed to exist through this fully conscious. Because John wouldn't allow him to take something to take the edge off existence. He'd love to get some … not an option. Taking things would hurt John… He had endured the past two years for him; he would make it through this, too. He needed something that would work… figure something out to cope with this… Maybe he should expose himself all day long to the smell of blood to get the neutrality of the smell back. Blunted affect. Would animal blood suffice or would he have to ask Molly for a few litres? The pure memory of the smell of his own blood made the nausea rise again. He reached the flat. Maybe he should expose himself to the smell of his _own_ blood. He'd need an anticoagulant… and a blood donation kit for this. He set a mental reminder to get one later.

He entered the living room, realising to late he wasn't alone.

"Oh, Sherlock, there you are. I just finished making some pastries." Mrs Hudson informed him. Obviously she had baked in their oven. He hoped she had cleaned it before, but it was her, of course she had done that.

He entered the kitchen, still in his coat, the smell of fresh baked goods warm and heavy in the air. His stomach was not really happy about it.

"Why didn't you bake downstairs?" He asked, tension about the unfamiliar scent clear in his voice but Mrs Hudson had long learned to ignore this kind of rudeness.

"Oh, there is a second load in the downstairs oven, I thought I might clean your oven and use the chance that it's clean. It's not that long to Christmas now and I thought John and Mary would like to eat some fresh cookies.

"Hm." Sherlock broadcasted his displeasure. She took a baking tin out of the oven and put one with unbaked cookies into it in instead.

"When will they be home, dear?"

"John's shift is over at 17:00 usually, he will probably arrive here at around 18:00."

Right now it was still a rest of light outside. Sherlock opened all windows in the flat and vanished into his room, closing the door firmly.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and closed them all again.

.

"John, come on." Sherlock had fetched his coat as soon as John had entered the flat.

"What? I just came home."

"We need to go to the hospital."

"What, why?" John had hung up his jacket.

"Lestrade just texted and informed me that the victim…"

"Sandra Hermann! Her name is Sandra Hermann."

"Yes. She is lucid since half an hour and asked to be interviewed today. We'll meet Lestrade there in half an hour."

Mary crossed the room and kissed John. "Don't let me stop you. Go, if you want to."

"I…" John was not sure what to do. On one hand he knew he wanted to go on the other hand the shift had been really exhausting. Too much flu cases, they had closed the surgery two hours later than normal and it was almost 19:30 now. The flat smelled like fresh baking and it was accentuating his hunger even more, he so needed a meal. But he had also the feeling to accompany Sherlock would be important, too. They had not done anything concerning the case together since the chase.

Additionally John had been not really glad that he couldn't accompany Sherlock for the interview in the morning….

"Wait, you were supposed to interview her this morning, why didn't you?"

"We found her stabbed in her bed and she was taken so surgery. Obviously she survived and is awake."

"Blimey… Okay… but I won't drive." John took the jacket of the hook again and slipped it on once more. The doctor decided to try to not sound as tired as he was and followed Sherlock, who was already halfway down the stairs.

Mary stepped in his way when he passed the kitchen door that led to the stairway and held out her hand. John needed a moment to realize she held out three pastries in a serviette and smiled at her.

Chewing, he followed Sherlock down the stairs and through the open front door.

Ten minutes later they sat in a cab but Sherlock did not chatter on to him about the new things that had happened. John needed to ask twice to find out what had roughly happened. And even then Sherlock was close lipped and in the end he only had a vague understanding of the events.

Another fifteen minutes later they walked down the corridor of the ward. Lestrade was talking to the doctor again. When Sherlock and John approached them he greeted him goodbye and turned into their direction.

"Hi, John." Greg greeted. "Nice you could come, too." John realized the tired gaze he gave him held more than just a greeting, there was need and…? What was going on?

"Same room?" Sherlock asked and when Lestrade nodded hurried down the corridor.

"Sherlock, slow and with sympathy please. She almost died again, today… And was probably re-traumatized. And it is her explicit wish to speak to us. The doctors suggested to wait 'til tomorrow night. So we're here because of her doing. Treat her like a human being please, she went through a lot." Lestrade warned while they neared the door, which was guarded by a policeman now.

"Fine." Sherlock sounded unnerved but knocked politely when he reached the door and even waited a moment before entering.

They entered a dimly lit room with a very pale and exhausted Sandra Hermann sitting on her bed with her knees drawn up. She had a friend sitting nearby, they both greeted the group politely and Sherlock seemed to have decided to keep his mouth shut.

Lestrade realized he was the one who was supposed to do the talking; quite surprised he introduced them and started asking the questions carefully.

Mrs Hermann answered with a voice that was still hoarse from the anaesthesia but her mind was clear and eager to impart what she had to say. She started describing her ordeal after John and Greg had sat down, Sherlock refused to take a chair.

She explained how she had come home from work and then went to get the shopping done. On her way home she had felt as if someone was watching her but whenever she had turned around none was there. She had had the feeling for days but always thought she was imagining it. She described how glad she had been to arrive the safety of home, only to be grabbed from behind when she was sorting the groceries into the fridge. He had grabbed her and threatened to stab her in the heart if she tried to fight him.

"He made me lie on the sofa and then pinioned and blindfolded me. At that point I was hoping he'd just rob me and leave, but he injected me with a drug and I passed out only moments later… When I came to I was dressed differently… but in my own clothes and in a relaxed pose on the sofa, but I couldn't move. He was… he was moving around my flat as if he had lived there for years… and… and as if we had known each other for years… He talked to me as if we were friends or… I don't know, it was really odd."

"…as if you were lovers?" Lestrade asked carefully.

"No. He was really freaky and did a lot of bad things, but he never behaved in a way that was in any way sexual."

John saw she was even paler now and tried to soothe her her.

"You are really tough to talk about this in such a disciplined manner, you're doing great."

Behind him he heard Sherlock huff, displeased and wondered briefly about what, she was talking fast and not really emotional, at least not until now.

"No, it was really odd. He behaved as if I was a good friend, talked to me, entertained me, watched TV with me… but he repeatedly drugged me through an IV and…."

"Did he handle things as if he was a medical professional?… I mean was he doing that with the ease of a person who had done it a hundred times?"

"Hm…. Not really. I mean he had practice, but I had a lot of bruises around the puncture site and it hurt when he missed. He tried again and again, but the day before you found me… Many many thanks… thanks for saving me… I was so glad I… I almost lost it when you came in because I thought it was him, coming back, and I could feel he was different that night…. And I feared I was going mad after so many days and… "

Now John saw tears in her eyes for the first time, but her voice stayed firm.

Her friend stroked her upper arm briefly but she didn't stop.

"The day before you found me he removed the IV and I… he started injecting me on very odd places with higher doses and I wasn't allowed to have break from the drug any longer… I was before; I could go to the bathroom and wash and have something to eat when it had worn of. He usually waited for the drug to wear off and I was allowed to do all those things but then he… he used place like between my toes or at my ankle to inject me and I slept more than before… it felt horrible, being paralysed was really really dreadful and… " Now her voice stopped with the emotions and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

"If you need a pause we can wait outside." Lestrade offered.

"No." She murmured and her friend stood up and hugged her. The second woman talked to her briefly in a low voice, obviously she had not heard about what had happened in detail and was quite shocked.

"He was a bit of a freak. Extremely neat but very peculiar… and he did loads of things in odd ways. He always ate that extremely cheap pizza in all variations but not with seafood… and he smelled like my grandfather's aftershave. I think… he had aspects of a child in his behaviour but also those of an older man. He was incalculable, mean and threatened me…. I think he liked to have the power over me, but also to take care of me."

"How did he take care?" Lestrade asked.

"I… He…" She gulped. "I had an accident when he told me he'd give me another dose of the drug… it was when the first dose had worn off and I already had a panic attack from not being able to move after waking up… and feeling vulnerable when I realized I was paralysed and in his power and feared that he'd rape me or… and… I had another one then and struggled and when he held me down… I… I… " She choked on her own words. "I… It was the most humiliating thing in my life… I had an accident… It resulted in wet underwear."

"Oh." Lestrade just said, empathy in his voice.

"Don't be ashamed, it's not an uncommon reaction of the body in situations of extreme fear, might have even caused by the drug cocktail he gave you." John explained in a calm voice, but frowned when he heard Sherlock's breathing speed up behind him, the other man also became a bit unsettled and moved around a bit agitated.

"I am so very ashamed…" She admitted.

"How did he react?" Greg wanted to know.

"He cleaned me up as if it was the most normal thing in the world."

"What did he look like? Did he wear hoodie sweaters, baseball caps or trainers?"

"Yes, he did. All of that. You saw him, didn't you?" She addressed Sherlock and John.

"Yes." John answered. "But we didn't know for sure it was him." John waited for Sherlock to jump in but he was not saying a word. "We followed him, but he got away. We are very sorry."

"I am so glad you found me… I am not sure I would have survived enduring that any longer. I was going mad with the fear and the deadly terror. Whenever he left I tried to get free desperately. He found my damaged wrists after the first day he was gone and… he bandaged it, took care of it, treated it with ointment… but he heightened the dose so I wouldn't do it again."

"How often was he away?"

"Almost daily… I thought he might have a part time job or something. I really can't say. He darkened the windows and I never knew if it was night or day and how long it had went on. He removed the clocks from the living room."

She also explained that he had been done a daily routing in her flat. Though she never heard the shower or anything. Expect the little drug-pauses, where she had been weak and allowed a bathroom break, on her own. And the man had used her tablet and her PC, wrote new messages and face book entries so that none would miss her.

"Can we have access to your accounts so we can see what he wrote?"

"Sure."

Lestrade held out a notepad and with shaky fingers she wrote something down.

"Ta. Can I send over an artist to do a sketch of him? Dr Watson and Mr Holmes already helped us make one, but they only briefly saw him and we'd like to have another from you."

"Yes, but …" She gulped. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Of course, I will send over one of my detectives in the early afternoon. "How did he spend the rest of the time with you?"

"I… to be honest I was so afraid all the time I… He watched TV, played with my play station, went shopping… I don't know… I was so afraid. And I lost time… the drugs made me sleep for long periods of time."

Her voice became more hoarse by the minute.

"Can you remember where you spent the first days right after your abduction?"

"First days?"

"Shortly after you were taken we searched your flat, because we were monitoring missing person cases for new victims. You weren't here?"

"Oh god, days? There were other victims? You knew he was out there?" New tears accumulated in her eyes and she silently sobbed once. Her friend stood up now and sat on the bed to comfort her.

"Why didn't… None saw anything? Why did none realize?… How…?" She started crying in earnest now.

John could feel Sherlock's uneasiness behind him when she described what had happened to her in detail but now he was getting more and more nervous.

"Why did none… help me?"

"We tried, and we were looking for you. Several other women were missing too and we had all the flats under surveillance but he was nasty, as if he knew, and he made sure none would smell a rat. But those two men spent two nights watching your flat and it was Mr Holmes' good eyesight and attention that made him finally make the first move when he saw something suspicious… We are very sure he didn't assault you sexually if that is your concern right now. The doctors were sure nothing like that happened. So you remember nothing of that first few days? In case something might come back, please let us know. One last question for today: Did he wear gloves or took his time to do the cleaning?"

"Yes, yes, as I said, he was very neat and cleaned up every thing, even touch marks on the furniture. He only touched me with the gloves…" She turned to sob into her friend's shoulder and murmured "I will be tortured by the memories of this for the rest of my life, why did he do that?"

"We don't know, but we plan to find out." John assured her.

"I think this is enough for today, we'll come back tomorrow." Lestrade stood up and also promised her that they would do the best they could to catch him.

John did the same and finally turned around to Sherlock to look at him without ostentation, the tall man was still sitting in his chair looking pale and exhausted… and absent.

"Sherlock, let's go." John encouraged him and like in trance Sherlock stood up and left the room without further greeting, which the young woman would have missed anyway because she was being hugged by her friend who nodded kindly and grateful at John and Greg when they left.

Lestrade closed the door silently behind them and turned towards John. Sherlock was already heading down the corridor.

"How is he?"

"Honestly… I don't know. Had just come home when he dragged me off to get here. Got a brief explanation that she was stabbed and you tried to get a screenshot but… it was really superficial."

"He was alone in the stairwell for a bit while I had the hospital locked down and didn't came out until I went after him. He didn't look good, really bad in fact. I tried to help but he… pushed me away."

"Did he have a panic attack?"

"Possible, but I don't really know."

"So you don't know what might have caused any stress?"

"No. It was all… I don't know, happened so fast."

"I'll try to find out what happened. Is he welcome to come with you tomorrow, too?"

"Sure. I'll text him and ask him to come."

"Good. Thank you, mate."

"Now get after him. Call me when you have a moment."

"Yeah, thanks Greg." The doctor hurried after Sherlock.

.

They arrived home half an hour later after a drive through the evening rush hour.

John had eyed Sherlock carefully who was silent and pale. The doctor needed something to eat and would then find out what had happened today. Sherlock had told him briefly about the case facts but left out his personal things of course.

"Hey boys, fancy some dinner?" Mary greeted John with a kiss when they entered the kitchen.

"You cooked?"

"No. Mrs Hudson did. She said she wanted to use the heated oven and put in a casserole after she was done with the pastries and cookies."

"Oh, great. I'm starving." John was already peeking into the oven when Sherlock entered the kitchen after him. The detective's facial expression clearly showed he'd have preferred a neutral smelling kitchen. Now the smell from the cookies mixed with the smell of the baking cheese and chicken. Sherlock yanked open the windows, he felt obviously assaulted by the smell and headed directly into his room, closing the door.

"What happened, is he angry?"

"Probably he is tired and unnerved and hasn't eaten and had a bad day… and the perpetrator escaped him again… and now his snug smells of things his stomach is not ready for… and he is quite unnerved with the world. I haven't found out what really happened but before I do I need something to eat. He needs time to cool down anyway."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea. Something happened but I haven't managed to find out what."

"Okay, it'll be finished in five minutes, let's get some plates. I have a date with Janine for the movies. She'll pick me up in forty-five minutes. Plenty time for you to solve that riddle then." Mary closed the windows again and stopped in front of John, hugging him.

"Oh, great. I think I'll drag his arse into his mind palace." John mumbled into her hair while kissing her once more.

They ate the delicious bake made with chicken and broccoli. Although they had once decided not to talk over cases from the surgery at dinner or while watching a movie they stumbled into it again. The idea wasn't working really well for them.

Mary prepared for the evening out and John followed her downstairs to see her off and thank Mrs Hudson for the delicious dinner.

The landlady handed him a plate with pastries and cookies. And while they were at it he took the chance to ask her if there had been any odd happenings today, which she negated, so the doctor thanked her at least five times more for the delicious meal. He then headed back up the flat.

He re-opened the windows and did his best to get the cooking smells out of the rooms.

After he had a shower he felt it was neutral enough to make a try to get Sherlock to talk.

He knocked at the door.

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><p>…<p>

_A/N:_

_Please give me some feedback and write a review._


	6. Chapter 6

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_Dear guest reviewer, you brought my attention to something that might be misunderstood, thank you. So for all who haven't read the first part of this story (Lessons in Friendship 8: Vulnerability): Mary is __**not**__ living with them, this is just John staying over and Mary joining them temporarily. _

_From what I saw in SoT they were doing more wedding stuff from the flat than from John's and Mary's home (none to be precise), so I thought their current living model was John and Mary moving between their home and the flat according to needs, while Sherlock always stays at the flat, which seemed to be most canon compliant. I myself have also problems with Mary shooting Sherlock but this is from the POV from after the first episode, where those events hadn't happen yet. _

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><p>…<p>

**Chapter 6**

**Monday night**

John knocked at Sherlock's door again but didn't get an answer, though he heard Sherlock moving inside.

"Alright, I am coming in, then."

He carefully opened the door, peering in.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, phone in hand, looking up at him with dark shadowed and tired eyes, he looked haunted.

"Hey." The doctor greeted, trying to sound enthusiastic. The question how Sherlock was doing would only cause frustration, so he didn't ask. He saw enough with his own eyes anyway.

The pile of blankets was still on the ground. John entered and sat down on them and to his surprise felt they were warm, Sherlock had sat there moments ago and only moved to the bed when he had knocked. He looked up at the detective and it was clear he was aware John knew where he had been. The detective looked away.

"Smells bothering you?… I aired the flat."

"Good."

"Stomach bothering you, too?"

Sherlock frowned and looked at him again.

"Tattered with Lestrade?" He spit in a low voice.

"We do not tatter. We are worried."  
>"I am sick of hearing the word 'worried'."<p>

"I know… But you could help minimizing it's use with a bit of trusting us and telling us what's happening, it would reduce worrying and therefore us use of the word."

"I am sick of telling and talking and…"

"Sherlock, you are not mad at us for caring, you are mad at yourself for feeling bad and feeling under the weather and not being able to hide it better… and you think you are not functioning properly and you're mad about that, too. I know."

"Stop that psycho-BS, I am not in the mood."

"Er… okay. Let's get to the mind palace. I think the faster we fix it the faster you'll succeed in solving the case."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Yes, you are." John insisted.

"I am not!"

"You want it working, I want it working, we'll go there and work on make it working." John tried to lighten the situation.

"Not now, I am busy. Your tendency to play with words today is not welcome."

"Sherlock, the opening up to me thing we have discussed before…" John started.

"The excessive use of the word 'work' seems to have tired me beyond…"

"So, you have no steam left to resist and must surrender and do as I ask." John grinned, trying humour once more. He stood up again and sat on the edge of the bed to look at what Sherlock was doing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock exploded.

"I am sitting on the bed."

"Get off!" Sherlock's tone had changed drastically, pissed and agitated now.

"Sherlock?… What the hell…?"

Sherlock jumped off the bed and reached for John's upper arm and literally dragged him off the bed. John was taken so much off guard he followed his movements.

"Blimey. What's wrong with you today." Sherlock normally would not be this territorial with his room or his stuff, not even with his bed. Privacy way nothing he particularly needed or cared about, at least not like this.

The doctor tried to use the fact that Sherlock was off the bed and grabbed several pillows from it to throw them onto the nest on the ground. Sherlock seemed to like it there and they would therefore use it again.

"Sit. We are doing this, now!" John made it sound like an order, and not a subtle one.

Sherlock held onto the last large pillow John had just thrust into his arms and let himself be pulled down by the doctor, who had just sat on another one.

With a slightly sulky expression he sat where he stood and stared ahead, waiting for John to speak.

"Sherlock, you know I am not doing this to cause you trouble, I'm doing this to help you."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Okay, sit comfy."

Sherlock sat cross-legged and his posture screamed tension. John abandoned the idea to ask his friend for what had happened today and decided to get them concentrated to get this moment over with as fast as he could.

"Okay, let's do this a little different than last time… The room where we found that strand beast model last time. Is there more? I mean is it a room for your former science projects? Or for technical wonders, or what?"

"John, please get the small talk over with soon. I'm not…" Sherlock started in an uneasy tone.

"Sorry, I thought I could…"

"I know, but it's doing the opposite."

"I haven't even begun." John explained.

"Stop the nonsense."

"I just wanted to do this nice and comfortable."

"There is no nice… It won't be comfortable and you only prolong the bad experience this way."

"Shit, Sherlock… I…" John was a bit lost for words while Sherlock's expression was dead and mask-like.

"Lie back." John instructed, putting several pillows behind Sherlock.

"No. Just elaborate where we need to go and get it over with." Sherlock suggested.

"Where do you think we need to go?… What's bothering you the most?"

"That I'm not able to use it at all without risking it gets really ugly. I need to be able to _use_ it."

"So our first priority would be to make it a safe place again."

"The existence of safe places is an illusion."

"Yeah, right, been there." John was sighting inwardly. This was not a good start, not good at all. "Stop pushing me away."

"I'm not."

"Then stop objecting."

Sherlock just huffed in a sarcastic way to that.

"Close your eyes."

To John's great relieve the detective did.

"You told me before there are large areas where it's burning and others where you can't enter."

"Yes…" Sherlock hesitated.

"You feel up to go there and get another look at the problems?"

"I don't feel up to but I know I am capable of doing that." Sherlock opened his eyes wide in something close to anger.

"Sherlock… please…"

The resistance Sherlock was giving him was quite alarming but not unexpected.

"Just trust me and stop this." John pleaded. He must have sounded more desperate than he thought because Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor and kept his silence. This was also not what John had expected.

The next moment Sherlock turned away from him and rolled into a ball on the blankets, in his sofa-sulking-position.

"Okay, then. Is there a fire on a level we have already been to? Are there multiple fires?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go… to where you remember a fire was last time you came by."

"There's one on one of the old school levels."

"And that particular level is home to which kind of memories?"

"I built it in my early teens. I don't like the level. I don't really want to go there."

"See it this way. Let's try there first. If we can't manage it's better than harming a level you like."

"Huh…" Sherlock huffed. "Information is non-judgemental. It just is."

"Then why bothering to inform me that you don't like it there."

"That's different."

"Really? Come on, just go there and tell me what it looks like."

"It looks like an dusty public school, hundred years without changes… It smells dusty."

"Ehm, why don't you remove the smell? It's your mind."

"Isn't working." Sherlock huffed into the fabrics surrounding him.

"Are you there, yet?"

"Yes…" Sherlock's voice had changed to small and soft now, but his posture seemed to be even more tense than before.

"Let's get closer to the smouldering areas… Describe the corridor for me."

"It's dark and with all those typical dark wooden ornamented window- and doorframes, wall panels, stained glass windows, dirty and letting in no light. Peeling paint is scattered on the floor… The…"

"Wait a second, did this level always look like this or has it changed recently?"

"It always looked abandoned and dusty, but it seemed to have worsened."

"You already made it like this?"

"No… I made it looking antique and… the fire is slowly eating at a wall on the right side of the corridor, rooms are on the left. The area ahead seems to be blackened and destroyed. The glow of the fire is… a source of light in this area…"

"Okay, stop… just stand there for a moment." Had Sherlock moved forward fast to get away from the other topic? "How about we first light the area properly so you can see?"

"Fine… I put on some heavy duty construction site lights… Er…" Sherlock seemed to hesitate or observes something.

"What is it, can you see better now? Can you see to the other undamaged side of the corridor?"

"No… The black area is still black and the corridor vanishes in the dark. I'll carry the light in manually."

"Do you know what caused this?"

"I… The last time I was here was when I tried to escape to my mind palace during… when I was in the Serbian cellar and wanted to get away for a bit."

"You don't need to make it sound like a holiday for me, just tell me."

"_Needed to escape reality for a bit_ then… I tried to reach another level, but somehow arrived here. The act of entering the palace was a struggle. I was wrenched back to reality again and again by my _host_, who was trying to hinder me switching reality off. It probably was against his ideas of making me suffer."

Sherlock's voice was monotone, but the sarcasm the words carried made John flinch.

"He dragged me back to reality several times. The procedure was not pleasant."

"So the damage might be caused by this dragging you back and you trying to stay?"

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock seemed irritated.

"Sounds logical. It's like an opening, caused by one force trying to get inside something, but another force is trying to keep it out… back and forth movement causing fraction."

"He tried to follow me…" Sherlock's voice changed to agitated now.

"What?" That statement and it's tone actually made John suck in air. The fact itself sounded bizarre and the doctor failed to understand the hidden mental equasion.

"Did he get in?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John stared at his back, wishing he could see more. He closed in a bit.

"Sorry, just assess the damage for now. No analysing, yet, just find out what it looks like…" Sherlock didn't react.

"Can you carefully move passed the burning areas?" John tried.

Sherlock held his breath.

"What's happening?"

"Hot… it's hot… and it's dark. The light gets swallowed by the blackness, it's like it can only illuminate twenty centimetres of air, I can't even see my feet…"

"How deep are you in?"

"Maybe twenty… steps…" John heard Sherlock's voice was balking from the virtual heat.

"Do you think you can get through?"

"I will try!" Sherlock's statement was more stubbornness than the honest wish to reach the other side. It sounded as if his teeth were clenched together.

The next moment Sherlock hissed angrily.

"What…?" John frowned.

"I dropped the light, I fell over some debris, the ground is hot, I… the debris is hot… I burned my fingers… I'll try to find a way to get over the joist and chunks… they are not all hot…. The heat is glimmering in the distance."

John realised Sherlock would hurt himself with his stubbornness, just trying to prove to John that he could make it through. Time to intervene.

"Sherlock, this might be a bad idea… Be safe, let's take a look at it from the other side. There is a staircase as well, isn't it?"

"I _will_ get through this!" Sherlock panted but John saw him start shivering.

"Sherlock, come back to me, get out of there, you're hurting yourself."

"I need to hurt myself to heal, that's what you said… To get passed my problems, to solve them, I need to endure the healing, endure the time it takes and all that is hurting me, why am I not supposed to do it then with this? Makes no sense. Shut up."

It dawned to John that Sherlock was not able to make the difference between getting through the agony of healing and the agony of unnecessary self inflicted cruelty… Yeah, what was this? To John it seemed like auto-aggression, but now he wasn't sure any longer. Could Sherlock be right and this was a healing process? Or was he just not able to distinguish between the two? To be reassured of the own powers and abilities might be a good thing, to prove he could weather this? Double edged thing. So the doctor waited, and shifted into a position from which he finally was able to see the other man's face, at least partially.

Sherlock's breathing was laborious and getting worse.

He was coughing and John was amazed and also a bit horrified how the mind's reality was affecting Sherlock's body.

When Sherlock started to struggle really hard for breath some minutes later John decided to finally intermit. He touched him and slowly shook his shoulder.

"Sherlock, get out… come on. No use to hurt yourself… come back."

Sherlock blinked at him, eyes wild and red, then jerked away from the touch, anger in his eyes clearly visible. He was sitting upright now, next to John, who had raised his hands slightly in surrendering gesture.

"Where's the use of doing this when you pull me out and disturb me like this? Why do you start this only to hinder me when I finally do it?" He griped.

"I am keeping you safe, I am not hindering you! There are risks and hurts that are needed to get passed, but there are others that aren't. You need to distinguish between those! This is not good. Why don't you see that?" John answered in frustration, ruefully biting his lips the next moment. He should not react like this, it was impatient and unpedagogical.

"How am I able to know what is to much for my body and what would help healing? All the normal suggestions don't work for me, to subtle or to intense, or nonsense. How am I supposed to know when I'm too aggressive and when I'm right? I both feels the same: bad."

John decided to carefully address the thing now that they were here.

"Your body should tell you. You should just know. Observe."

"But it doesn't and I don't. And don't tell me I am just not listening, because I can observe all I want to something that isn't there. Of course I could do it like in my youth when I faked having sensed something, just to get you off my back, but that intercedes with the rule 'don't lie to John'… and…"

This actually made John speechless. There were more important facts revealed in those brief sentences than in hours of talking. Sherlock had had this problem before. Someone had scolded him for not being good to his body and so often he invented a coping mechanism by concocting something… and he had made a rule that said 'No lying to John!'

"All right. That's good to know. I didn't realize that. I'm sorry." John remembered they had actually discussed something similar to this but it was years ago and they needed to go back to the palace for now.

"Thank you for that rule… Let's see how the corridor looks from the other side."

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows.

John relaxed, his friend hadn't turned away, not run away and not shoved him away.

"I changed position to the other side of the corridor." Sherlock started to report. "The blackened area seems to affect a third of the corridor, length: about a seventy metres. I can't see through from here either, and I can't see the lamps that I left when you called me back."

"Okay, let's set a marker to make sure we can determine if it expands and how fast."

"Done."

"What? How?"

"Red chalk marks on the ground. Several. Numbered. A metre in between."

"Both sides?"

"Give me a minute…" Sherlock seemed to concentrate. "Both sides."

"Okay. Can you make one more try to extinguish that smouldering walls… I know you told me you tried and it didn't work, but I want you to use a professional fire extinguisher and tell me exactly what happens. Just humour me."

"CO2 or foam?"

"Try both."

Sherlock coughed roughly and after about three minutes finally reported the results.

"CO2: just nothing happens… Foam: evaporates, which is totally not how it is supposed to act. The smell is overwhelming and poisoning the air."

"Good. Back off. Nothing changed then to the last time you tried, right?"

"Right." Sherlock said in a told-you kind of voice.

"Is there another smouldering or burning area?"

"Yes, two other levels, it's the same like here, we don't need to inspect is, the areas are approximately thirty and twenty eight metres long. One is on your level and the other one on a level I built shortly after the fall. But… there's an area with bomb damage, just a lot of debris blocking almost an entire level."

"Which one is it?"

"Early cases and information about… several industrial manufacturing processes."

"Like?"

"I don't know, the index is not accessible, too… the fist door says… food engineering."

"Oh,… you have an index then… of course, dumb question. Is it as dark as the other level?"

"No. This level is quite well illuminated… has a clinical design. You'd probably be reminded of Baskerville, bright and everything white and clean and… what is odd though is that the debris looks like from a really old house… like in the wartime pictures you see from WW2 or when an old house is demolished. The stuff should look like metal and plastic, modern building materials… it's odd…" Sherlock sniffed and seemed to inspect the debris closely. "It also… smells like built with old materials… mortar and straw… it…" Sherlock suddenly jerked violently.

And John was so surprised by the actual physical movement he sucked in air, too.

"What is it."

Sherlock held his breath.

"Something moved."

"The rubble?"

"No… something with an organic… eh, no… living movement pattern… a shadow, silently…"

"Where?… Inside the rubble?"

"No… Behind me… Where there's no damage at all." Sherlock huffed, stiff like a board, barely daring to breathe.

"Get out of there."

"No!…" Sherlock resisted. He seemed to hold his breath again. A few moments later he panted "I can't see anything. No-one there… Nothing… I'll check the adjacent rooms."

John waited, in a taut posture, too, he realised.

"Nothing, it's all… normal." The detective reported some long minutes later and John saw him relaxing.

"Er, Sherlock how did you built those levels? I mean is it a lot of work? Could you try to build a new level and then transfer the memories there somehow?… demolish this one." The picture of a broken down building had probably produced that idea.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can build a new level, but transferring the memories won't really work… or maybe… maybe it would if I could built the new level exactly like the old one, but therefore I'd need to enter the old level, which is kind of… the problem."

"Why can't you just transfer them?"

"It's kind of against the principles of how this thing works. You store memories in structures you know very well, in order not to dislocate them and find them fast… if you move them…. It might get messed up… But I can try… If clearing the problems out fails I probably have no option left but to try." Sherlock grunted.

"What are you doing?"

"I am cleaning out the rubble."

"Now?"

"Yes. As you said, the sooner I do this, the better for the current case… this is paralysing the palace. I can't function like this."

"Sherlock, what happened today that is frustrating you so much?" John asked carefully.

"Nothing. I _am_ quite exhausted."

"Now you stop that nonsense. Honestly! What?"

"I got distracted by a smell…" Sherlock explained when John had almost given up the hope to get an answer.

"And?" That couldn't be all.

"…and lost the perpetrator."

"Because of the smell or your reaction to it?"

"Neither."

"What was so bad then?"

"I failed… again… and I reacted inappropriately… weak. I hate to feel like that."

"Tell me what you felt."

"No. I am gonna clean out the rubble."

"Are you trying to work off your anger?" John tried to provoke carefully, approaching the subject from another angle.

"Of course, why else would I do it now?" Sherlock stymied him with his honesty towards himself. The mixture of Sherlock's self-evaluation was a stark contrast, on one hand he was brutally honest and evading nothing, having considered every aspect of his behaviour and mistakes, and the needed changes, on the other he totally failed to discern anything on other rather large areas of topics.

"Well, I suppose… it's a good idea."

"Get a book or something… or go to bed."

"Are you throwing me out of the palace?"

"I'm saying there is no point. You'll be bored and I'm not in the mood to describe every shovel of dirt I'm about to move."

"Right, then… Er… I'll get a book." John stood up and hurried to fetch two cups of tea, a bottle of water, another blanket and his current book.

When he came back to Sherlock's room Sherlock was deep into whatever he was doing. His expression showed concentration and mental movement.

John sat down and made himself comfortable. This could become a long night. He started reading.

When he turned pages he eyed Sherlock carefully, but except that he was concentrated at work there was nothing odd.

.

Over one and a half hours later John realised he had dozed off. He forced his eyes open and saw Sherlock twitching and even sweating.

"Sherlock, how are you doing?"

"Fine…" Came the soft reply, Sherlock wasn't panting but his breathing was a bit off.

"What did you do?"

"Removed a few metres of rubble and cleared the way to several doors."

"Is it working?"

"I would've stopped if it wasn't."

"Good."

John tried to stay awake but slipped into sleep again a few minutes later.

.

He jerked awake what felt like hours later.

Sherlock was curled into a ball next to him. A lot closer than he had been the last time John checked on him. His breathing was fast and he seemed uneasy.

He gently put his hand on the other man's shoulder, shifting to see his hidden face, but it was covered in locks and fabric from Sherlock's dressing gown.

"You okay?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"What happened?"

"Can't go on."

"Why not, did something happen? What did you see?"

"Nothing, just debris and debris and rubble and dust and… I can't stand up."

"You don't have to… Wait, in the palace or in RL?" Had he collapsed in the palace?

"Palace… I can't…" Sherlock sounded utterly exhausted, unsurprisingly. John assumed the man had not slept in ages and barely eaten. He felt his pulse, slow and soft, Sherlock didn't react. This seemed to become a ritual.

"Sherlock… sleep… Just sleep. It's gonna be okay… come on."

It only took about thirty seconds and John felt Sherlock relax abruptly with a soft sight.

John raised his eyebrows.

This was good. Sleep was good, working on this was good, having accomplished something was good… but something about tonight was preying on the back of John's mind.

…

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><p>...<p>

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. _

_Constructive criticism and feedback is very welcome._


	7. Chapter 7

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

…

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><p>…<p>

**Chapter 7**

**Tuesday - morning**

The first thing Sherlock's still half asleep mind sensed was the smell… The smell of the flat and his room. It entered his mind and the lingering remnants of his dream. He fought to wake fully and tried to shove the pictures away as soon as he realised he'd relive his nightmare' horrors as soon as he remembered.

Concentrate on the smell again! It smelt like home, the pillows smelled like home and a bit like John… He relished the sensation to be in 221b for several breaths. Being glad that he was _not_ camping in some woods or an abandoned building.

But as soon as he moved, his back reminded him that his body was still healing, more intense in fact than it had been for days now. Maybe sleeping on the ground was just not the best idea over a long period of time. But he couldn't find rest in his bed at all these days. The ground was good, the sofa was good, but not the bed.

He was starting to get seriously unnerved with the queerness his unconscious mind harassed him with.

John was no longer with him, had he gone to work?

What day was it?

Did John work every day now? He stumbled into the bathroom and started the water, as soon as it had the right temperature he had a ridiculously hot shower.

His body enjoyed the liquid warmth.

.

Tea was waiting on the kitchen table and it was hot.

Mrs Hudson had been up here… and he hadn't heard… and he couldn't smell her presence. No perfume, nothing. His senses seemed be messed up once more. Were they vanishing?

Would his deducting abilities vanish even further, too? He'd be completely useless in a few weeks if he continued to deteriorate like this.

Last night he had felt a spark of hope to be able to repair the palace and work on fighting all his problems off, but it was all gone this morning… like air escaped from a balloon.

Why had it gone? Or had it's existence been an illusion he had hunted just to please John? Hunted the illusion that anything might return to normal in the distant future?

He felt tired again.

Tired of everything. Exhausted beyond… whatever.

He stood in the flat and it's emptiness hurt physically. The bad anthracite hard grey feeling pressed down on him and mad him feel the urge to scream. But his mind's urges were getting on his nerves so much he suppressed it, just because he wanted to demonstrate to himself he had the upper hand.

He ignored the tea that smelled delicious because his body needed to understand that it would _not_ get what it wanted if it behaved like this.

A phone beeped somewhere and he went searching for it. The text message it had received was from Lestrade.

_'Ready to go? Will pick you up in 30.'_

.

Half an hour later they were in Lestrade's car and heading to the hospital.

Lestrade informed him that Donovan was already waiting at the hospital and an artist had assisted her and the victim to make some sketches.

"The lockdown had no effect. He slipped away and Donovan was pretty pissed when I talked her into make all stuff look at the stills. The clothes revealed nothing. We didn't even found out how he left the area."

"Maybe he went out with a service vehicle." Sherlock suggested. "You had them searched, right?"

"Of course. But maybe he just left before we managed to block all entrances. We checked for long hours into the late evening and the staff was not amused at all to be held this long."

Sherlock though about that maybe he should ask Mycroft about more surveillance material, but decided against it. He was still very displeased with Mycroft's behaviour and the fact that so many things his brother had foreseen had turned out to be right, and that he himself had failed to see them at the time… John was the most important of his failures. He knew it was ridiculous to be angry at Mycroft for being right, he was in fact more annoyed about himself, but he didn't like to be confronted with it… and Mycroft was a strong reminder.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade brought him back to reality.

"So he is fast, knows the building and the processes in detail and has routine. We should check the employees and former employees, too." Sherlock continued.

"The questioning of the staff on ward brought nothing, too. I hope we'll have more luck with the composite sketch. How could he do this with leaving this few evidence?"

"It's like before… Quite odd. The evidences left in the flat were so few and so… it's almost as if a forensic technician cleaned after him. Is Anderson accounted for?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade threw Sherlock a frowning look, obviously not sure if it was meant as a joke or not.

"Have you found out anything about the leak to the press?"

"Nothing yet. Media seems to be informed but with nothing concrete. Just general stuff. Though I fear it'll interfere profoundly with the investigation… Well, at least people will be more attentive for their friends and family. On the other hand… I'm already sorry for all the new missing persons that will be filed because people are actually overreacting."

Sherlock said nothing to that.

.

When they entered the hospital room, the victim… Sermann Sermon… Hermann… wasn't that a male first name?… whatever, greeted them with a friendly smile, though her face was red and swollen and looked as if she had cried all night.

When Lestrade asked how she was doing Sherlock gave an annoyed groan, well, at least he was not the only one who was asked this dumb and annoying question.

"Manners, Sherlock." Lestrade gently reminded him in a low voice, but Sherlock had already spotted the drawings that were spread over a table. Donovan was taking pictures with her mobile phone and seemed busy sending them.

"Good day to you, too, Sherlock." She said when he stood next to her, eying the sheets of paper closely.

"This is the man who kept her." Sherlock turned around to the young woman. "But it wasn't the same man who stabbed you?" He realised he had interrupted Lestrade and her talking but didn't care.

"Last night I couldn't remember what happened, but over the night the memories came back." New tears ran down her cheeks and Sherlock felt actually repulsed by her weakness. She was _not_ the only one who had lived through nasty things. Why didn't she at least manage to hide it as long as they were here? It was manageable, he was doing it all day… Why was she not working harder on hiding her emotions? Harassing her surroundings with them. He felt annoyed and troubled by her displayed suffering.

"I… snapshots of how he looked like are coming back, but… I'm sure he… it wasn't the same man. That's why I didn't react at first… I was half asleep… and I thought he was… just another doctor… and then, it all happened so fast!" She wiped her eyes.

"You're a very brave person." Donovan had turned around and smiled warmly at her. Something Sherlock wasn't used to see.

"Oh, please!" He muttered, even more disgusted than before.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade looked at him in surprise and resentment. Now he started to feel really annoyed. Why did everyone sympahize with _her_? He had _died_ for his friends! And the following two years had been a time of pain, loneliness, torture and he had lived through some the most horrible things that a person could undergo.

Was anybody honouring that? If they did it, it didn't feel like that at all. They were doing stupid things that were a waste of time, but nothing that helped or did him any good. He needed that it was like before the fall, but no-one seemed to want to assist with that.

"Show her the picture that was drawn from my and John's descriptions. Text me if you find out anything by showing the drawings around. Relatives of former victims need to see them too. Mail me a copy, I'll take care of it."

"No way." Sally disagreed.

"Fine." Sherlock hissed and the pressure the whole situation was putting on him rose… He realised it actually happened, the atmosphere in the room felt unbearable pink and he needed to get out. He headed to the door and down the stairway. No-one followed him, of course not, he was the unwelcome misbehaving freak.

When he reached Baker Street the flat felt extraordinary empty. He stood in the door and watched out of the windows.

It had just started snowing while he was in the cab and the white dancing outside felt soothing and made the world less noisy.

His agitation and anger was gone now, and he couldn't really reconstruct the reasons for his earlier anger.

He had seen victims cry before and he had also seen a lot of them worse and more distressing than she had been.

He needed to think… needed to review the evidence once more. He threw his coat into John's armchair and started collecting all the notes and print-outs he had already collected.

Donovan had not yet send him the drawings.

He texted Lestrade, requesting that he was brought some more copies of all the material they had found. He flicked through all the loose pages he had in the file and printed out some more things from his mobile phone.

.

An hour later Lestrade still hadn't answered and he now had most of the new sheets added to the wall above the couch and the opposite one, the newest case directly over the sofa.

When he was scribbling several ideas onto some post-it notes he heard steps on the stairs.

"Uh, Sherlock. It's cold in here!" Mrs Hudson greeted him. "Why didn't you turn on the heating?" She stepped to the control and tapped at it, shivering.

"Let's make you some tea, you're probably almost frozen."

Sherlock heard her filling the kettle.

"When will John be home?" He asked her.

"Four hours." She informed him.

"That's ages!" He reached for his coat and took it off the hook.

"What are you doing?" Mrs Hudson stepped into his way.

"I'm going to get him." Logical reaction, wasn't it? John wasn't here, he needed him, so he would go and get him.

"No, you don't. He has to work and will not thank you for making a scene at the surgery… besides, you could talk me through it, maybe we'll find some nice little things you have overseen before."

"Unlikely… No. I need John."

"Then you just have to wait, dear. Let's have some tea." She took his coat from his hands and hung it back onto the hook.

"I need him now!"

"Sherlock, come on, behave like an adult. What has gotten into you today? He's at work and you can't just drag him home."

"Why is everybody boycotting me today?" He knew his tone was horribly dismissive but he didn't care even a bit.

"I am not, I'm just trying to talk some common sense into you. Here." She handed him a cup and a pastry and vanished back into the kitchen. The thing smelled good and he decided he could sulk as soon as he had eaten it.

A moment later the doorbell interrupted Mrs Hudson's bustling and she hurried downstairs.

When she back came up she held a plate with more pastries in one hand and a large manila folder with a note on top in the other.

"A young lad gave this to me, said it was from Inspector Lestrade."

The note on top said: '_Don't be such a arse or next time I won't take the time to get you these._' Sherlock snorted.

"You're having a _really_ bad day, haven't you?" The landlady said with exaggerated empathy.

No, he hadn't. He felt miserable, yes, but what had that to do with a bad day?

He has constantly felt miserable for months, now and it had peaked after his return. But saying it was one bad day when his life seemed to have gone bad was more downplaying than he felt he deserved.

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled, now fully embarrassed and annoyed, about his own sentiment and the frail thoughts he was having, like his need for recognition. Those were not really familiar to him, usually he didn't need other people's appreciation, he wanted those to vanish again.

"Uh, dear." She hurried back into the kitchen and some moments later he heard her start doing the dish-washing.

Why was she doing that? She was not his housekeeper.

"Oh, for god's sake! Why are you doing this?… I need to think, stop making noises!" He yelled through the room.

Gladly, he heard her hurrying down the stairs seconds later. Good. Now back to the case.

…

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><p>…<p>

_A/N:_

_Sorry if my English is a bit bumpy sometimes, I am not a native speaker._

_Thanks for reading._


	8. Chapter 8

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

…

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><p>…<p>

**Chapter 8**

**Tuesday - afternoon**

"Hey, what's up?" John stood in the door to the living room, he had sneaked up the stairs to hear what Sherlock was doing. He did his best to make his question sound casual.

"Finally!" Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth and turned around to face him with an angry movement. "I need…?" Sherlock paused and watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Yes?" John raised his eyebrows and waited.

The room was a mess, papers, files and post-it notes were everywhere.

Mrs Hudson had promised him to watch over Sherlock a bit today and call if something was more odd than usual, or if she was really worried about him.

So she had called John and told him about the detective's behaviour. The doctor had hoped it wouldn't have happened already on the second day he got back to work, but better safe than sorry. Sherlock needed to know he was not alone in all this and after what their landlady had told him he decided Sherlock needed company… The fact that Lestrade had texted him before added to that decision, and made him hurry home as soon as possible.

The doctor had seen it coming that Sherlock wouldn't be fine alone. He hadn't left John's side for days, John knew this was difficult for the detective. Therefore he was prepared, had made arrangements at the surgery for this kind of event, made sure other doctors where there to jump in. John had done his best to create a small safety net without Sherlock knowing it.

"…to solve the case." Sherlock finished lamely, no hissing or any other sign of anger left.

"Really, hardly new…," John teased. "I suppose you found something?"

"NO!" Sherlock tore his hair, messing it up completely. He was wearing his dressing gown again.

"Well, what do you want to do now?" John hung up his jacket and frowned at the cold in the room, he switched on the heating before he headed into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"I don't know, I've been over it all again and again and it's just… I can't think!"

"Okay… Er… how about we do it the old fashioned way, tell me… explain it to me… and then we'll see where it gets us."

"It'll get us nowhere!"

"You want me to let you alone with this again? Maybe you can concentrate better without me? I could go shopping," the former soldier suggested, just to see how Sherlock reacted.

"No," Sherlock sounded almost angry that he had dared to suggest it.

"Fine, then walk me through it," John sat down in his chair, folding his hands in his lab in a gesture that was clearly showing he was focussing on listening.

"Victim 1: Plymouth, female, found first, looked like suicide, delayed delivery to the morgue, Autopsy with Molly, wore fresh clothes, oral ingestion of the drug-cocktail, talcum powder, no IV marks…"

"It was the second autopsy, right?"

"Correct, Victim 2: London, female, case start for SY, IV marks on the left leg, first autopsy, we found nothing in the flat."

Sherlock rounded the table and lightened a cigarette, John didn't comment. Everything that would make Sherlock better was okay for the moment. He was really worried and eyed Sherlock closely, who was so busy with the case he was absolutely unaware of the doctor following his every move.

"Victim 0: Bristol, almost buried as a suicide, male, no IV marks but residue of the drug cocktail on his skin, unknown fibres under his toenail, identified by his sister at the morgue, third autopsy, untouched flat, neat and clean, no signs of depression…"

"Slow down a bit, would you?" John interrupted, "I'm not that fast… show me where the evidence and pictures are located to what you are explaining." With this speed they would rush by everything that needed to be though through again.

"The laptop was used… victim arrived in the flat 14 hours before his death, had been missing for seven days, was not home the other six and a half days… he used face-book and twitter far to much… computer was used during his captivity…" Sherlock inhaled the smoke in between the words and that slowed down his speech additionally.

"We should take a closer look at that again, or have you already?"

"Of course, spent hours reading the nonsense."

"Maybe I should read it, too."

"Fine, on my laptop, I used his login, it's quite clear where the killer switched in, completely different writing style, though he mimicked the nonsense topics perfectly… Victim was hetero, not dating, no relationship, had contact to a 'guy4578', combination of numbers suggests the account was supposed to be short living, probably male person, couldn't find other accounts on social networks with this username."

Sherlock ran up and down the living room, forced John to watch this way and that to follow him.

"Victim Number 3: killed in London, found by friend, laying on a couch, looking as if taking a nap, tablet user also sharing her whole life with the world, tablet is missing, at home for 2 days before death, perpetrator ate pizza at her flat, cleaned up neatly but forgot the pizza boxes, he probably didn't stay there at nights, victim was dressed by the killer with her own clothes, no dirty laundry, not assaulted, treated and moved carefully, slight bruises on legs, IV marks by small catheter. Victim 4…"

"Stop…. Did you summarise things that all victims shared somewhere?"

"Yes, it's over there, it's not much. The drug and the use of varying social media. The posture on the sofa and the outer appearance of suicide is shared at least by most of them. I compared…"

"Sherlock, stop… have you considered looking through older suicides?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and then his shoulders sagged.

"Yes, I mentioned it to Scotland Yard, but… failed to get back to them. I guess they forgot… or thought it wasn't worth the effort… I failed to push it… Forgot…"

"Okay," John hurried to say, no need to let him go further down any depressing roads, his posture said enough. "Put it on the to-do-list."

"To-do list? What for?"

"So I know later what we shouldn't forget… Get some structure into this, you know."

"No."

"Just do it, for me. I need this for better thinking," John asked and Sherlock fetched an extra large post-it note and scribbled something on it, it was unreadable.

"Victim 4: only survivor, nurse, missing for two days, Scotland Yard wanted to do surveillance after three more days of her missing, we did the two nights and saved her that way, saw the suspect in the stairway, probably left to get pizza, unclear how he brought her in, windows covered."

"We didn't went after that either, did we?"

"What?"

"How he got her in."

"I told Scotland Yard to tell me if they find something."

"Maybe they didn't look at it properly, did you?"

"I had no… time… yet."

This must be the first occasion Sherlock had said something like that in his whole life. Before the fall Sherlock would have spent the night outside or make John do it with him, but now he didn't. Now that John was thinking about it, Sherlock had stayed home every night since his return, hadn't he?

"Sherlock… may I ask why you didn't drag me out there to do it?" John asked in a low voice, careful not to let it sound like an accusation.

"…" Sherlock took breath and looked as if he wanted to say something, but closed his mouth again and kept silent.

John searched through his memories, looking for occasions where Sherlock had actually asked him to do something or stay or come with him in his former brisk way, like he used to do? He found only a very few small occasions, nothing like 'before', no taken-for-grantedness like before.

John made a decision.

"Let's go." He took his jacket, Sherlock looked at him with surprise, still stricken with silence. He didn't move, looked a bit uneasy, in fact.

"What are we waiting for? Did I miss something?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock blinked and hesitated for almost another twenty seconds, when John did a step towards him, wondering what he had done wrong Sherlock got out of his stupor and reached for his coat.

"Trousers?" John reminded him.

The detective let the coat fall to the coffee table and ran off into his room. John stood in the middle of the room, now his eyes were narrowed in wondering what had just happened.

Get Sherlock to work, that should be the new strategy, Sherlock seemed to run into dead ends a lot lately… maybe because he was so unconcentrated, depressed, sleep-deprived and more than exhausted.

John fetched his phone and called Greg.

"Greg, hi…. Can we come by later?… Yes, in fact, I think you could… Can you try to get your hands on all suicide cases from the past… six to seven months… Which area… maybe the entire UK?… Yes, yes I know this'll take hours, maybe you can narrow it down and leave out all cases where the deaths were preceded by suicidal thoughts and known depression or other mental health issues… We're willing to help to search and copy, but can you make someone start?… I know it's a lot of work… Yes… Okay, thank you."

"What are you doing?" Sherlock came back, buttoning his cuffs, his jacket over his arm.

"We'll drop by Scotland Yard later, let's go."

Sherlock's face showed nothing, not even curiosity, he went ahead down the stairs.

.

They were lucky and found the caretaker at Sandra Herman's flat building almost immediately.

It turned out the man, Mr. Brinks, had been interviewed by the police briefly, they had asked him if he had seen anything suspicious and if there was a second stairwell but he had negated it, they asked nothing further, probably because they didn't want to give any details away because of the leak.

After describing him that the perpetrator and the victim had gotten into the building somehow while the front door was under surveillance he seemed surprised and intrigued, this little detail had not been mentioned to him before.

Before Sherlock could make a nasty remark about police work, John asked if there might be any hidden passages or other ways, like a crossing from another building.

"I'm sorry, I know of no way to get in here yet, except the emergency fire escape route, but it is not accessible from the outside and no-one could carry an unconscious person up there without being seen… And there's a metal hatch in the back, over a former coal window, but it's tightly locked and all metal…. But I'm new at this job and… maybe we should see the building plans."

They headed into his office and he showed them the plans.

It was a mess of old sketches with plenty remarks and additional papers that showed the changes and renovation that had been done. The building was over hundred years old and had been remodelled several times.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. Looks like a duct or wireway, maybe."

They couldn't figure out what the rectangular space, that was at least 1,5m² large on every level was used for. So they decided to go and find out.

They started in the cellar and Sherlock found a hidden door almost immediately, it was behind a small rag, that just covered the whole for a door handle. Since the rest of the door did not look like a door, it was only a small furrow in the wall, no-one would have guessed. This door was not built to be used regularly, it was more a movable part of the wall, made to provide access when needed.

The janitor brought an old door handle that fitted into the hole, it wasn't even locked. When they opened the door it revealed the antique looking scissor gates of an elevator.

Mr Brinks switched on his torch, but seconds later he had found a light switch and pressed it before anyone could stop him.

The elevator was there, waiting. Sherlock took out some gloves and opened the gate. The whole thing was pretty dusty but looked rather good if it was as old as Sherlock guessed.

"Ah, excellent!" Sherlock knelt down.

"What did you find?" John leaned over his shoulder from behind in the small doorway.

"Footprints, looking rather fresh."

"What?" Mr Brinks tried to lean over Sherlock, too, but John gently held up a hand, showing him not to invade Sherlock's private space. He raised a frustrated eyebrow but waited patiently.

"Three… persons,… maybe four…. or maybe… three and one wore different shoes on one occasion… The lift was used at least twice in the past weeks." Sherlock stood up and eyed the tinged elevator controls, forcing John to make a step back.

"Ah, good." Sherlock continued and with one hand pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial key. "Lestrade… I need you to bring a forensic team to Mrs Semman's house and…. What?… "Herman, Sherlock." John said behind him.

"Er, Mrs Herman's house… we found an old elevator that was recently used… No, not even the janitor knew it was there, we just found it."

Lestrade arrived a short time later. In which they had checked the rest of the building for possible entrances. The only other way to get in was a large coal window on the back of the house. It was accessible through another street in the back of the building. It was usually locked, but when they checked the padlock they found it could be opened without using the key easily.

The also found one more accessible exit to the elevator, it was on the top floor, that didn't house any flats and was just two stories higher than Sandra's flat. Getting her down the stairs couldn't have been that hard. Here the door was easier to find, because it wasn't blocked.

The floor was clean so there was no way to tell who had passed, but the door showed signs of use. The hole for the door handle had been painted over and, like in the cellar, it was clearly visible that someone had inserted a handle, used it and then taken the handle with him, because the paint was scratched away around the hole.

Sherlock interpreted this as sign for usage and was eager to try the lift. He argued that up to now they weren't sure if it had been used, someone could have tried and not succeeded. John hindered him by arguing even the stepladder, on which Sherlock planned to stand on to protect the footprints, would disturb the evidence. To his great relief Sherlock finally listened. The idea of Sherlock operating an old lift standing on a stepladder seemed very risky to him, but Sherlock refused to understand that argument.

They waited outside for Lestrade and Sherlock smoked.

.

The police unit arrived a short time later and documented the evidence.

John noticed Lestrade did his best to make absolutely clear how glad he was Sherlock had found this and thanked him. Greg seemed to try to cheer Sherlock up in his own way and nodded at the DI, who understood the silent approval and nodded back.

While the team was busy Sherlock dragged John and Greg into Sandra's flat, where he stormed into her bedroom and opened her closet.

"Shoes." John grinned.

"Where else look for the causes of shoeprints?" Sherlock sat down on the ground, in front of the four rows of footwear and took one pair after the other out and inspected the sole.

"Right."

"This one!" Sherlock held up some relatively new trainers for John and Greg to see.

"Are you sure, mate? Should I fetch one of the pictures for comparison?" the DI asked.

"No need, it's this pair… But we need a large evidence bag for those." Sherlock's way to get up again was pedestrian an John noted the pale complexion and tired eyes once more, they had become worse.

They bagged the pair of shoes, it was likely the perpetrator had been the last person who had touched them. While Sherlock locked the door after them Lestrade's mobile rang.

"Lestrade… Hi Sally….Okay, have them brought to Mrs Herman's flat, we are still here. Ta," he hung up. "I want the keys back, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked not happy about that, but handed him the small bunch of keys.

When they returned to the forensic team in the cellar, they were almost finished and starting to pack up.

"If you are finished I want to try the lift."

"No way!" Lestrade interfered, "You can order it to go upstairs, but you'll not ride with it. Too dangerous."

"But our perpetrator used it, so it must be working fine."

"No! Where is the use in riding in it."

"It would be fun."

"No."

With a sour expression on his face Sherlock pushed past the last two persons who were now carrying the equipment outside. John feared in earnest Sherlock would just close the doors and start the lift, but he didn't.

He pushed the buttons from outside the cabin, prepared to jump out in case the thing would do something immediately, but when nothing happened he closed the door.

As soon as he had, the thing started a noisy and slow journey upstairs.

"Someone must have heard this." He passed them and they hurried to go after him once more.

.

Thirty minutes later they had knocked on every door and asked the resident if they had heard the noises before, Lestrade's team was ordered to make the lift go up and down constantly. They were lucky. Several people had heard the unknown noise Friday night and estimated it had been around eight o'clock, which meant Sherlock and John had inspected the flat just an hour before the killer brought Sandra back. They had then started the surveillance totally unaware they had come 'home'.

When they were returning to the cellar Lestrade received a message.

Mr Brinks hid the elevator again by closing the doors and removing the handles. They thanked him and said goodbye.

"Come on, let me give you a ride home, I have one box of files in my car and Sally just had someone deliver the other two."

"What boxes?"

"All suicides in the UK that weren't preceded by depressions or other mental illnesses from the past six months. John asked me to bring them."

Sherlock didn't react and John feared he might be embarrassed about the fact that he hadn't thought about it earlier. He lightened another cigarette and headed to Greg's car, the others followed.

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_Thank you for reading. :)_


	9. Chapter 9

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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><p>…<p>

**Chapter 9**

**Wednesday**

John and Mary headed out for lunch somewhere where they'd be able to talk in private while having something nice to eat.

They ended up at a pizza restaurant.

"He's testing me," Mary grinned and took the first slice of her pizza. "It's never been this clear with any new person I met. He's analysing me, cataloguing, sensing, storing,… and as funny as it sounds, I'm doing the same. But he passively observes, I kind of…actively push."

"What?… Honestly? Why didn't I realise?"

"Probably because you're so used to it. You either stopped asking yourself why he's doing certain things or you switched it off because you yourself are just to exhausted with all this stress to have space in your thoughts for this. But… he seems to want to be distracted, and he takes the chance with analysing me. I'll show you next time it happens, it's quite interesting... sometimes even funny. We do this fully aware and it's like a small puzzle… for both of us."

"Oh," was the only thing John said, chewing on another slice of his pizza. He was aware Sherlock couldn't stop observing, it felt a bit odd that it was his future wife under such close inspection. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. On one hand he felt he needed to protect her on the other she seemed to… enjoy it?

"John, what happened the other night…er, Monday?" Mary asked, they hadn't really talked about it, yet. She had come home late that evening and found John and Sherlock in the detective's room, on the floor.

The sight had shocked her a bit, but the fact that John was sleeping and Sherlock seemed deep in concentration had made her go upstairs as silent as possible.

The next day John had been out investigating with Sherlock and when they had returned home all three of them had a fast dinner and then started going through the files.

Mary was eager to participate and although Sherlock seemed a bit hesitant in the beginning he included her, as soon as she had asked obviously the right questions about with which strategy she was supposed to sort through it.

John had seen a conflict coming, being reminded of the reactions Sherlock had given Sarah all those years ago when she commented on some of the evidence during the banker case. But Sherlock had just told her how he wanted it done it they had worked in concentrated silence to narrow the amount of files down that might fit the profile.

Lestrade called a bit later and informed them two more boxes of files were ready and another few where on the way from other parts of the country.

John and Mary had gone to bed at around one in the morning while Sherlock had went on all night. So this was their first quiet moment together since Sunday night.

John needed a moment until he answered her question about Monday night.

"We did a mind palace session. It was difficult, different… He was resisting, not just a bit… not opening up, feeding me little pieces, but nothing I could really grab. It was just small pieces of a puzzle, he refused to show me any more than absolutely necessary. Just giving me tiny insights when he couldn't evade my probing. It was slow and tough…."

John took another bite.

"I learned almost nothing new, it was just a mess of information. But we once more stumbled into some… eerie, sinister… things. He's so pissed about not being able to control his problems and dominate his transport… I fear he's gonna hurt himself this way even more. He seems more angry than before… and pushing me away… overall a lot worse than last week."

"Is there anything I should have an eye on when I'm home alone with him?"

"If he wants to go to the mind palace… he can… as long as you or me are present… in the room or flat I mean, he shouldn't do it alone. I don't think he'll need help cleaning out the rubble, but I'd rather not him being alone with it.

"Okay." She giggled. "So that's what he's been doing in there, cleaning out the rubble?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't aware the thing is this… normal. What's it like?"

John told her a few general things and how the mind palace worked for Sherlock and how he normally used it to solve cases.

"So in general it's good for him, but it's behaving odd and he should use it carefully, is that what you are saying?" Mary finished the explanation.

"Yes, you decide… if it gets to odd or… stressing or whatever try to gently stop him, don't touch him. Give me a call if necessary. It's always the unexpected with him, but I… with some things he needs space… odd things… hard to describe."

"Okay, I'll call if I have doubts. Want to change topics for a moment?"

"Yes."

"How about we try to figure out a date for the wedding in the upcoming weeks, I mean if we really want to do it in spring we shouldn't wait that much longer to start planning."

"Oh, okay. Let's not confront him with that, yet, okay, he's not ready."

"Sure."

.

Sherlock had spent the night and half the day with the files, at some point he felt the need to move, to get out of the empty flat. The stale air and the lonely taste of it made him feel uneasy. He wanted to get a few more things he needed to experiments on the drug-cocktail. All tries to recreate it or to find something that would counter-act it had been futile. He was aware it was more of a curiosity thing than that it was actually needed. Who'd need something like that? The victims were dead and if they weren't no doctor in their right mind would let him give an untested drug to a patient who'd come out of it within a few hours. He wanted to know, or maybe just use his microscope again and do some experiments, finger exercise.

He left in the early afternoon to be sure he'd be back when John would come home.

When he arrived back at 221b at around 16:00 he had shopped at the chemist and also persuaded Molly to get him a few blood donation kits and a whole box of blood drawing tubes with the fitting cannulae.

Molly had been delighted about the visit, even entertained him with her current dead body she was working on. He let her, not eager to return to the empty flat to early.

On the stairs he sensed someone was in the kitchen.

He entered directly to see Mary wearing Mrs Hudson's apron.

"There will be dinner at 1800." Mary informed Sherlock.

"Where's John?"

"At work."

"Then why aren't you?"

"He asked me to go ahead. Offered to make dinner tomorrow and the day after if I went home to make some lasagne today. I accepted."

Sherlock realised in fact the flat was smelling like tomato sauce and béchamel.

He just stood there for a moment. Not sure what to do. Right. She was here, John would be here later.

What was he supposed to do?

"I… good."

'Good' was always kind, using that word would cause no harm.

But he needed… or wanted?… privacy right now. Maybe rest? Best option: escape to his room.

"Why don't you tell me what you found out?" Mary interrupted his thoughts and shoved him into a chair, coat on and all.

He stood up again.

"Excuse me for a minute, I need the bathroom."

A moment later he found himself standing in the flat's bathroom. Since he was already there taking a shower would be a good option. Washing away all the bad reminders of the day.

Moments later he had undressed and stepped into the warm haze.

But even after washing his hair and body twice he didn't feel better. It wasn't working.

He stepped out of the shower and into his room to get fresh clothes, then returned to the kitchen with the equipment he brought.

"Mary, you are trained in drawing blood… or starting a line for blood-donation," he stated.

"Sure, why?"

"I need you to take some of my blood." He was sure it would be easier to make her do it than convincing John to do it. He'd ask more questions, would be harder to obfuscate.

"What for?"

"Experiments."

"What kind of experiments?"

"Whole range of different scenarios, mostly chemical analyses."

She locked as if not sure if she believed him.

"I'm not sure we have a sample kit in the house."

"I have, but I'd prefer if you use a donating kit, more efficient. 500 ml would be enough to do all the tests and put some in store for later."

"Er… I can draw some samples, Sherlock, but not that much. You're still healing, taking that much would be not good. John would throw a fit if I did that."

"Fine." He placed the box on the kitchen table where Mary was busy unpacking the lasagne sheets. He took a sideways look into it, there were not only needles and sample containers, but also rubbing alcohol, swabs and a tourniquet.

"Oh, I see you are prepared," she commented.

"Obviously, we always had medical equipment at home, spared us several visits at the A&E in the past."

"What do you want to test?" she tried again.

"I need to determine the effects of the drug used on the victims," he tried to be deliberately vague. He could see she wasn't really buying it, probably because of her profession.

"Can I watch the experiments?"

Definitely not buying it, and letting him know she wasn't… and that she'd try to maneuver him into a dead end if in the mood. Retreat? One more careful try to move out off this.

"I'll probably do it later this night or in the morning."

She didn't react at all to this answer, but pointed at the nearest chair.

"Sit there… and get that shirt of. Pushing the sleeve all the way is not an option."

He hadn't thought of that, the shirt he had chosen had indeed narrow cuffs. He returned to his bedroom and changed into a t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms.

She raised his eyebrows, maybe asking herself why he had completely changed instead of just slipping out of the sleeve… or was it because he once more wore the shirt inside out?

He sat down on the chair and started to disinfect the crook of his arm himself.

When Mary washed her hands he tightened the tourniquet. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him preparing the other sample containers and cannula, she was probably not used to see patients participate in this or do the work themselves. He was just trying to minimise the touches that the procedure usually included.

The vain had already started to bulge when she sat down with gloves already on.

Sherlock had placed ten large vials on the table.

"I'll do six, if you need more tomorrow, we can do that, but not all of them at once. That's too much."

"Fine."

She draw the blood and Sherlock watched closely.

"Thank you," he tried to smile nicely at her and took over pressing on the swab.

She washed again and resumed her cooking while Sherlock labelled the samples and gently moved them around to mix the blood with the anti-coagulant that was already in the containers.

He stored all expect one in the fridge, in the reserved compartment for experiments and took the one to his room.

He closed the door carefully and thought about how to do the experiment that was supposed to accustom himself to be able to smell blood again without causing any kind of crisis. Probably put it in a petri dish would allow the smell best to distribute.

But the presence of Mary in the kitchen and… he felt he hadn't the necessary concentration to do this yet, he'd wait until everybody was in bed and placed the vial on the windowsill.

There were new sounds in the kitchen.

John was home.

Good.

It was cold and he added his dressing gown to his outfit and then returned to the kitchen.

Mary was still rummaging in the kitchen while John was standing in the living room switching channels.

Sherlock decided to lie down on the sofa once more, blending out the smells of food as good as he could.

.

"Do not interfere, just watch," and with that Mary was through the door and entered the living room. She had just finished dinner preparation and put the lasagne into the oven.

Now she headed towards Sherlock who was lying on the sofa on his back in a thinking position, feet raised on the armrest.

John looked after her, around the window panes of the kitchen door, a bit not sure if whatever she planned wouldn't result in thrown cups and destroy the fragile trust Sherlock and Mary had built during the past days.

"There will be dinner in thirty," she informed Sherlock before sitting on the coffee table, exactly where John had sat so often before. Then, with one swift movement, she removed his left sock.

John held his breath when Sherlock froze.

"Your foot is hurting?"

It actually took almost ten long seconds until Sherlock answered. "No."

"You've been walking around with this one a bit, didn't you?"

He sat up into a position of attention, but before Sherlock had time to think how to make her stop inspecting his foot politely she was probing the toes in detail.

"That looks broken. Why didn't John bandage it?"

"He…" Sherlock started, but obviously didn't know how to finish the sentence.

She had grabbed his ankle and leaned even closer… to close, Sherlock could feel her breath and instinctively tried to remove his limb from her grip.

"Yes?"

"I didn't tell him… before…"

"What? Why the hell not?" her tone had been casual but now it had changed to stern.

"I…" the detective started and gently tried to pull away. But her grip tightened and the next moment she probed the toes not too careful again, searching for the break.

The detective was still trying to drag away when she ordered, "Don't move!" without looking up at him.

"I…"

"Just give me a minute," she had tape in her hand suddenly and before Sherlock really saw what was happening he heard it was ripped into stripes and then felt it was wrapped around his toes.

"I can't…" he was clearly taken by surprise about the fact that she approached him in a physical way like this.

"Nonsense. You can wear this a few days. You'll see it won't be as uncomfortable as you think it is, as soon as you walked on it a few steps. Then, you'll feel it'll actually take pressure off the broken toes and feels good. So, shut up."

Her moves were efficient and fast.

"What?"

"It's a bit mean to not let John help, you know." Mary informed, but her tone carried no judgement or obvious criticism.

"What?" Sherlock was visibly irritated, and a bit unnerved. "What's that supposed to mean?… What kind of perspective is that?"

"He is a doctor, he needs to help." Mary explained. "He can't watch somebody hurt, it's bad for him. He actually made an oath to help people, no matter what. If you don't allow him to do it, that's kind of rude, especially since you're someone who means a lot to him. Why didn't you let him?"

"I… I didn't want to bother him. It's not his fault, it's mine. I was…" Sherlock realised he didn't want to talk about this. John deserved to know things, she didn't. But she was part of John. Would they talk about it? Was John listening? The detective looked up towards the kitchen doors but John was nowhere to be seen. He could hear pots and pans were moved in the kitchen and hoped John wasn't listening.

Mary on the other hand knew he was, she had planned all her moves, careful to not overstep any boundaries to fast or to rude. She knew perfectly well she was pushing them gently, it was a social experiment, and she was sure John understood it.

She was working on getting his trust and finding her place in… this. Using his confusion seemed a good strategy, though when she was honest, he had been afraid of his refusal, or being yelled at.

When she was finished Sherlock hadn't really moved. She didn't look at him, just casually packed the tape and headed back to the kitchen.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked to relax the situation, halfway across the room.

"Tea."

"With lasagne?"

"You ate pizza for lunch and lasagne for dinner and think it's odd to drink tea with an Italian meal?"

She hesitated briefly, how did he know? "No, it's fine… As you like."

When she returned to the kitchen John had a whimsically grin on his face, which signalled he was surprised but admired her creativity. Though he had probably held his breath while she was doing it… and that he probably knew how Sherlock had deduced what they had for lunch.

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. :)_


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